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 |  |
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.—
“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.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |