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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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
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 | VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. | CANTO XIV. |
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| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
CANTO XIV.
“Nature, dear Nature, is my goddess,Whether array'd in rustic boddice,
Or when the nicest touch of Art, Doth to her charms new charms impart
But still I, somehow, love her best, When she's in ruder mantle drest:
I do not mean in shape grotesque, But when she's truly picturesque.”
Thus the next morning as he stray'd,
And the surrounding scene survey'd,
Syntax exclaim'd.—A party stood Just on the margin of the flood,
Who were, in statu quo, to make A little voyage on the Lake.
52
The ladies were quite pleas'd to view Such pretty pictures as he drew;
While a young man, a neighb'ring 'Squire,
Express'd a very warm desire,
Which seem'd to come from honest heart,
That of their boat he'd take a part.
Now from the shore they quickly sail'd
And soon the Doctor's voice prevail'd.
“This is a lovely scene of nature; But I've enough of land and water:
I want some living thing to show How far the picturesque will go.”
Lady.—
“See, Sir, how swift the swallows fly,
And lo, the lark ascends on high, We scarce can view him in the sky.
Behold the wild-fowl, how they spread Upon the Lake's expansive bed:
The kite sails through the airy way, Prepar'd to pounce upon its prey:
The rooks too, from their morning food,
Pass cawing to the distant wood.”
Syntax.—
“When with a philosophic eye
The realms of Nature I descry,
And view the grace that she can give To all the varying forms that live:
I feel with awe the plastic art That doth such wond'rous pow'rs impart
To all that wing the air, or creep Along the earth, or swim the deep.
I love the winged world that flies Through the thin azure of the skies;
Or, not ordain'd those heights to scan, Live the familiar friends of man,
And, in his yard or round his cot,
Enjoy, poor things! their destin'd lot:
But though their plumes are gay with dyes,
In endless bright diversities,
What, though such glowing tints prevail,
When the proud peacock spreads his tail;
What though the nightingales prolong
Through the charm'd night th'enchanting song;
What, though the blackbird and the thrush
Make vocal ev'ry verdant bush;
No one among the winged kind Presents an object to my mind:
Their grace and beauty's nought to me;
In all their vast variety The picturesque I cannot see.
A carrion fowl ty'd to a stake Will a far better picture make,
When as a scare-crow 'tis display'd To make all thievish birds afraid,
Than the white swan, in all its pride, Sailing upon the crystal tide.
As a philosopher I scan Whate'er kind Heav'n has made for man;
I feel it a religious duty To bless its use and praise its beauty:
I care not whatsoe'er the creature,
Whate'er its name, its form and feature,
So that fond Nature will aver The creature doth belong to her.
But though indeed, I may admire
The greyhound's form, and snake's attire,
They neither will my object suit Like a good shaggy, ragged brute.
I will acknowledge that a goose Is a fine fowl of sov'reign use:
But for a picture, she's not fitted—
The bird was made but to be spitted.
The pigeon, I'll be bound to show it, Is a fine subject for a poet;
In the soft verse his mate he woos,
Turns his gay neck, and bills and coos,
And, as in am'rous strut he moves,
Soothes the fond heart of him who loves:
But I'll not paint him, no, not I— I like him better in a pie,
Well rubb'd with salt and spicy dust, And thus embody'd in a crust.
How many a bird that haunts the wood,
How many a fowl that cleaves the flood,
With their sweet songs enchant my ear,
Or please my eye as they appear,
When in their flight, or as they row Delighted on the lake below!
But still, whate'er their form or feather,
You cannot make them group together;
For let them swim or let them fly, The picturesque they all defy.
The bird that's sitting quite alone Is fit but to be carv'd in stone;
And any man of taste 'twould shock
To paint those wild geese in a flock:
Though I like not a single figure, Whether 'tis lesser or 'tis bigger:
That fisherman so lean and lank, Who sits alone upon the bank,
Tempts not the eye; but, doff his coat,
And quickly group him with a boat,
You then will see the fellow make A pretty object on the Lake.
If a boy's playing with a hoop, 'Tis something, for it forms a group.
In painter's eyes—O what a joke To place a bird upon an oak:
At the same time, 'twould help the jest, Upon the branch to fix a nest.
A trout, with all its pretty dies Of various hues, delights the eyes;
But still it is a silly whim To make him on a canvas swim:
Yet, I must own, that dainty fish Looks very handsome in a dish;
And he must be a thankless sinner Who thinks a trout a paltry dinner.
The realms of Nature I descry,
And view the grace that she can give To all the varying forms that live:
I feel with awe the plastic art That doth such wond'rous pow'rs impart
To all that wing the air, or creep Along the earth, or swim the deep.
I love the winged world that flies Through the thin azure of the skies;
Or, not ordain'd those heights to scan, Live the familiar friends of man,
And, in his yard or round his cot,
Enjoy, poor things! their destin'd lot:
But though their plumes are gay with dyes,
In endless bright diversities,
What, though such glowing tints prevail,
When the proud peacock spreads his tail;
What though the nightingales prolong
Through the charm'd night th'enchanting song;
What, though the blackbird and the thrush
Make vocal ev'ry verdant bush;
No one among the winged kind Presents an object to my mind:
Their grace and beauty's nought to me;
In all their vast variety The picturesque I cannot see.
A carrion fowl ty'd to a stake Will a far better picture make,
When as a scare-crow 'tis display'd To make all thievish birds afraid,
Than the white swan, in all its pride, Sailing upon the crystal tide.
As a philosopher I scan Whate'er kind Heav'n has made for man;
I feel it a religious duty To bless its use and praise its beauty:
I care not whatsoe'er the creature,
Whate'er its name, its form and feature,
So that fond Nature will aver The creature doth belong to her.
But though indeed, I may admire
The greyhound's form, and snake's attire,
They neither will my object suit Like a good shaggy, ragged brute.
I will acknowledge that a goose Is a fine fowl of sov'reign use:
But for a picture, she's not fitted—
The bird was made but to be spitted.
The pigeon, I'll be bound to show it, Is a fine subject for a poet;
53
Turns his gay neck, and bills and coos,
And, as in am'rous strut he moves,
Soothes the fond heart of him who loves:
But I'll not paint him, no, not I— I like him better in a pie,
Well rubb'd with salt and spicy dust, And thus embody'd in a crust.
How many a bird that haunts the wood,
How many a fowl that cleaves the flood,
With their sweet songs enchant my ear,
Or please my eye as they appear,
When in their flight, or as they row Delighted on the lake below!
But still, whate'er their form or feather,
You cannot make them group together;
For let them swim or let them fly, The picturesque they all defy.
The bird that's sitting quite alone Is fit but to be carv'd in stone;
And any man of taste 'twould shock
To paint those wild geese in a flock:
Though I like not a single figure, Whether 'tis lesser or 'tis bigger:
That fisherman so lean and lank, Who sits alone upon the bank,
Tempts not the eye; but, doff his coat,
And quickly group him with a boat,
You then will see the fellow make A pretty object on the Lake.
If a boy's playing with a hoop, 'Tis something, for it forms a group.
In painter's eyes—O what a joke To place a bird upon an oak:
At the same time, 'twould help the jest, Upon the branch to fix a nest.
A trout, with all its pretty dies Of various hues, delights the eyes;
But still it is a silly whim To make him on a canvas swim:
Yet, I must own, that dainty fish Looks very handsome in a dish;
And he must be a thankless sinner Who thinks a trout a paltry dinner.
“The first, the middle, and the last, In picturesque is bold contrast:
And painting has no nobler use Than this grand object to produce.
Such is my thought, and I'll pursue it;
There's an example—you shall view it.
Look at that tree—then take a glance At its fine bold protuberance;
Behold those branches—how their shade
Is by the mass of light display'd:
Look at that light, and see how fine
The backward shadows make it shine:
The sombre clouds that spot the sky
Make the blue vaulting twice as high;
And where the sun-beams warmly glow,
They make the hollow twice as low.
The Flemish painters all surpass In making pictures smooth as glass:
In Cuyp's best works there's pretty painting;
But the bold picturesque is wanting.
“Thus, though I leave the birds to sing,
Or cleave the air with rapid wing—
Thus, though I leave the fish to play Till the net drags them into day—
Kind Nature, ever bounteous mother!
Contrives it in some way or other,
Our proper wishes to supply In infinite variety.
The world of quadrupeds displays The painter's art in various ways;
But, 'tis some shaggy, ragged brute That will my busy purpose suit;
Or such as, from their shape and make,
No fine-wrought, high-bred semblance take.
A well-fed horse, with shining skin,
Form'd for the course, and plates to win,
May have his beauties, but not those That will my graphic art disclose:
My raw-bon'd mare is worth a score
Of these fine pamper'd beasts, and more,
To give effect to bold design, And decorate such views as mine.
To the fine steed you sportsmen bow, But picturesque prefers a cow;
On her high hips and horned head
How true the light and shade are shed:
Indeed I should prefer by half, To a fine colt, a common calf:
The unshorn sheep, the shaggy goat, The ass with rugged, ragged coat,
Would to a taste-inspir'd mind, Leave the far-fam'd Eclipse behind:
In a grand stable he might please,
But ne'er should graze beneath my trees.”
And painting has no nobler use Than this grand object to produce.
Such is my thought, and I'll pursue it;
There's an example—you shall view it.
Look at that tree—then take a glance At its fine bold protuberance;
Behold those branches—how their shade
Is by the mass of light display'd:
Look at that light, and see how fine
The backward shadows make it shine:
The sombre clouds that spot the sky
Make the blue vaulting twice as high;
And where the sun-beams warmly glow,
They make the hollow twice as low.
The Flemish painters all surpass In making pictures smooth as glass:
In Cuyp's best works there's pretty painting;
But the bold picturesque is wanting.
“Thus, though I leave the birds to sing,
Or cleave the air with rapid wing—
Thus, though I leave the fish to play Till the net drags them into day—
Kind Nature, ever bounteous mother!
Contrives it in some way or other,
Our proper wishes to supply In infinite variety.
54
But, 'tis some shaggy, ragged brute That will my busy purpose suit;
Or such as, from their shape and make,
No fine-wrought, high-bred semblance take.
A well-fed horse, with shining skin,
Form'd for the course, and plates to win,
May have his beauties, but not those That will my graphic art disclose:
My raw-bon'd mare is worth a score
Of these fine pamper'd beasts, and more,
To give effect to bold design, And decorate such views as mine.
To the fine steed you sportsmen bow, But picturesque prefers a cow;
On her high hips and horned head
How true the light and shade are shed:
Indeed I should prefer by half, To a fine colt, a common calf:
The unshorn sheep, the shaggy goat, The ass with rugged, ragged coat,
Would to a taste-inspir'd mind, Leave the far-fam'd Eclipse behind:
In a grand stable he might please,
But ne'er should graze beneath my trees.”
Caught by his words, the northern 'Squire
Fail'd not his learning to admire:
But yet he had a wish to quiz The Doctor's humour and his phiz.
“I have a house,” he said, “at hand,
Where you my service may command;
There I have cows, and asses too, And pigs, and sheep, Sir, not a few;
Where you, at your untroubled leisure,
May draw them as it suits your pleasure.
You shall be welcome with your mare, And find a country 'Squire's fare;
If a few days with us you pass,—
We'll give you meat—and give her grass.”
Thus 'twas agreed; they came on shore, The party saunter'd on before;
But, ere they reach'd the mansion fair,
Grizzle had borne her master there.
It was indeed a pleasant spot That this same country 'Squire had got;
And Syntax now the party join'd With salutation free and kind.
'Squire.—
“This, Doctor Syntax, is my sister:
Why, my good Sir, you have not kiss'd her.”
Syntax.—
“Do not suppose I'm such a brute
As to disdain the sweet salute.”
'Squire.—
“And this, Sir, is my loving wife,
The joy and honour of my life.”
Syntax.—
“A lovely Lady to the view!
And with your leave, I'll kiss her too.”
Thus pleasant words the converse cheer'd
Till dinner on the board appear'd;
Where the warm welcome gave a zest To all the plenty of the feast.
The Doctor eat, and talk'd and quaff'd;
The good Host smil'd, the Ladies laugh'd.
'Squire.—
“As you disdain both fowl and fish,
Think you your art could paint that dish?”
Syntax.—
“Though 'twill to hunger give relief,—
There's nothing picturesque in beef:
55
Will paint your dinners; that is—eat 'em.”
'Squire.—
“But sure your pencil might command
Whate'er is noble, vast and grand,— The beasts, forsooth, of Indian land;
Where the fierce, savage tiger scowls, And the fell, hungry lion growls.”
Syntax.—
“These beasts may all be subjects fit;
But, for their likeness, will they sit?
I'd only take a view askaunt, From the tall back of elephant;
With half a hundred Indians round me,
That such sharp claws might not confound me,
But now, as we have ceas'd to dine, And I have had my share of wine,
I should be glad to close the feast
By drawing some more harmless beast.”
The Doctor found a quick consent, And to the farm their way they bent.
A tub inverted, form'd his seat; The animals their painter meet:
Cows, asses, sheep, and ducks and geese,
Present themselves, to grace the piece:
Poor Grizzle, too, among the rest, Of the true picturesque possest,
Quitted the meadow to appear, And took her station in the rear:
The sheep all baa'd, the asses bray'd,
The moo-cows low'd, and Grizzle neigh'd!
“Stop, brutes,” he cried, “your noisy glee
I do not want to hear—but see;
Though by the picturesquish laws, You're better too with open jaws.”
The Doctor now, with genius big, First drew a cow, and next a pig:
A sheep now on the paper passes,
And then he sketch'd a group of asses:
Nor did he fail to do his duty In giving Grizzle all her beauty.
“And now,” says Miss, (a laughing elf)
“I wish, Sir, you would draw yourself.”
“With all my heart,” the Doctor said,
“But not with horns upon my head.”
“—And then I hope you'll draw my face.”
“In vain, fair maid, my art would trace
Those winning smiles, that native grace.
The beams of beauty I disclaim; The picturesque's my only aim:
My pencil's skill is mostly shown In drawing faces like my own,
Where time, alas, and anxious Care,
Have plac'd so many wrinkles there.”
Now all beneath a spreading tree They chat, and sip their ev'ning tea,
Where Syntax told his various fate, His studious life and married state;
And that he hop'd his Tour would tend
His comforts and his purse to mend.
At length they to the house retreated,
And round the supper soon were seated;
When the time quickly pass'd away,
And gay good humour clos'd the day.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |