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 |  |
Artist.—
“I need not tell you, Sir, that Art
Demands a power in ev'ry part,
Which should pervade its form and feature;
And that, as you must know, is Nature.
Say, wherefore, does my active eye Seize on her various scenery?
And wherefore is it thus confest, That I ne'er fail to chuse the best?
—Because I seek her wheresoe'er She woos me to her mild and fair;
Because, when she's sublimely good,
She courts me in the wild and rude.
I ask you where is her abode Which by my feet has not been trod?
The heights, the depths, the falling floods,
The rugged rocks or spreading woods?
Where, tell me, is th'Arcadian scene,
With sun-shine gay, as em'rald green,
Where my researches have not been?
In all this beauteous country round, No, not a spot is to be found,
At orient morn, or ev'ning grey, Where I've not urg'd my studious way:
Where, by a nice experience taught,
Each varying, transient tint is caught.
Here clouds upon the mountain rest,
And sink in mists upon its breast:
Here the light falls with silver beam,
Or the sun glows with golden gleam.
There the flood pours its foamy wave,
Or various forms in shadow lave;
And glimm'ring in the crystal plain, In fainter outline live again,
There, where is seen within the glade,
The less or greater depth of shade;
Where the thin air conducts the eye, Transparent mirror, to the sky;
And wheresoe'er the varying feature Aids the full aggregate of Nature,
My Art can dip the pencil in it, And fix the beauty of the minute.
—Hence my superior works, and hence In Art I claim pre-eminence.
—There are your Artists, who, in town,
From gaudy daubs expect renown;
Whose rank true taste will ne'er prefer To that of an Upholsterer;—
Nor does their utmost stretch of art Excel the Paper-Stainer's part.
They do not Nature's works pursue, As I with patient labour do.
They may from some steep warehouse ridge
Sketch water-falls at London-Bridge;
Or study the transparent wave, That does the grassy meadows lave,
Where the New River's lagging on
Through the bright scene of Islington:
They let their wearied pencil breathe,
From crowded choice, on Hampstead-Heath,
Or leaning 'gainst a stunted oak, Make bright designs of London smoke:
There they in tints so mild and mellow,
May mark out sun-beams red and yellow,
And study foliage from a rood, Or a score yards, of underwood:
Then their big minds with mountains fill,
By views of Harrow on the Hill;
And catch, from the New Road so strait,
The Picturesque of Turnpike Gate.
There's Hyde-Park too, the charming scene,
Which they may view so flat, so green;
And trace the ever-varying line, Along the strait-bank'd Serpentine.
Thus with their pencils on they go, From low to high, from high to low,
And fancy hills, as they move on The level walks of Kensington;
Where, though it loyal bosoms shock, They turn the Palace to a Rock.
Some will the Picturesque beseech To aid the view of Chelsea-Reach;
But left by Genius in the lurch, Can only reach to Chelsea-Church:
Then, as it were, to crown the whole,
To fill the view, to charm the soul,
How proudly they let loose their eye, From St. Paul's Golden Gallery,
To view the vast horizon round That half-a-dozen miles may bound.
—These glorious Artists of the Town, Will club expenses to come down,
The boast of Nature here to see And slyly borrow Art from me.
Yes, I have often seen them smile, Their fruitless envy to beguile.
—But now pray turn your eye to see
What hangs on lines from tree to tree.
They are my works which I display In the full air of open day:
And, though expos'd to sun and sky, My Colours, Sir, will never fly.”
Syntax.—
“Upon my word you make me stare,
And I most solemnly declare, I thought them linen that you wear:
Your shirts and shifts hung out to dry, In washerwoman's symmetry.”
Artist.—
“Not one R. A. has got the gift
To make him such a shirt or shift;
They're first-rate works that deck the line,
'Twas this hand drew them, they are mine,
And I declare among them all That each is an Original.”
Syntax.—
“'Tis not for me to controvert
What you so boldly do assert;
But as my eye these drawings strike,
They, my good friend, are all alike.
You cannot wish the truth to smother,
That they are Copies of each other.
If so, why, surely, he who calls These copied works Originals,
Gives such a meaning to the word, I, as a scholar, never heard.”
Artist.—
“I tell you, if the copies prove,
(Nor does my understanding rove,)
True both in tint and touch and line, To the original design,
And copied by the self-same hand
That does my pencil's power command;
Those Drawings must, to Critic eye, Share in th'Originality;
And be the number what they may, If they unerring Truth display,
I say, in spite of envy's brawls, That they are all Originals.”
Syntax.—
“At least, I think it must be known,
That, Mr. Artist, you are one.”
“I need not tell you, Sir, that Art
Demands a power in ev'ry part,
Which should pervade its form and feature;
And that, as you must know, is Nature.
Say, wherefore, does my active eye Seize on her various scenery?
And wherefore is it thus confest, That I ne'er fail to chuse the best?
—Because I seek her wheresoe'er She woos me to her mild and fair;
Because, when she's sublimely good,
She courts me in the wild and rude.
I ask you where is her abode Which by my feet has not been trod?
The heights, the depths, the falling floods,
The rugged rocks or spreading woods?
Where, tell me, is th'Arcadian scene,
With sun-shine gay, as em'rald green,
Where my researches have not been?
In all this beauteous country round, No, not a spot is to be found,
At orient morn, or ev'ning grey, Where I've not urg'd my studious way:
Where, by a nice experience taught,
Each varying, transient tint is caught.
Here clouds upon the mountain rest,
And sink in mists upon its breast:
Here the light falls with silver beam,
Or the sun glows with golden gleam.
There the flood pours its foamy wave,
Or various forms in shadow lave;
And glimm'ring in the crystal plain, In fainter outline live again,
There, where is seen within the glade,
The less or greater depth of shade;
Where the thin air conducts the eye, Transparent mirror, to the sky;
And wheresoe'er the varying feature Aids the full aggregate of Nature,
My Art can dip the pencil in it, And fix the beauty of the minute.
—Hence my superior works, and hence In Art I claim pre-eminence.
155
From gaudy daubs expect renown;
Whose rank true taste will ne'er prefer To that of an Upholsterer;—
Nor does their utmost stretch of art Excel the Paper-Stainer's part.
They do not Nature's works pursue, As I with patient labour do.
They may from some steep warehouse ridge
Sketch water-falls at London-Bridge;
Or study the transparent wave, That does the grassy meadows lave,
Where the New River's lagging on
Through the bright scene of Islington:
They let their wearied pencil breathe,
From crowded choice, on Hampstead-Heath,
Or leaning 'gainst a stunted oak, Make bright designs of London smoke:
There they in tints so mild and mellow,
May mark out sun-beams red and yellow,
And study foliage from a rood, Or a score yards, of underwood:
Then their big minds with mountains fill,
By views of Harrow on the Hill;
And catch, from the New Road so strait,
The Picturesque of Turnpike Gate.
There's Hyde-Park too, the charming scene,
Which they may view so flat, so green;
And trace the ever-varying line, Along the strait-bank'd Serpentine.
Thus with their pencils on they go, From low to high, from high to low,
And fancy hills, as they move on The level walks of Kensington;
Where, though it loyal bosoms shock, They turn the Palace to a Rock.
Some will the Picturesque beseech To aid the view of Chelsea-Reach;
But left by Genius in the lurch, Can only reach to Chelsea-Church:
Then, as it were, to crown the whole,
To fill the view, to charm the soul,
How proudly they let loose their eye, From St. Paul's Golden Gallery,
To view the vast horizon round That half-a-dozen miles may bound.
—These glorious Artists of the Town, Will club expenses to come down,
The boast of Nature here to see And slyly borrow Art from me.
Yes, I have often seen them smile, Their fruitless envy to beguile.
—But now pray turn your eye to see
What hangs on lines from tree to tree.
They are my works which I display In the full air of open day:
And, though expos'd to sun and sky, My Colours, Sir, will never fly.”
Syntax.—
“Upon my word you make me stare,
And I most solemnly declare, I thought them linen that you wear:
Your shirts and shifts hung out to dry, In washerwoman's symmetry.”
Artist.—
“Not one R. A. has got the gift
To make him such a shirt or shift;
They're first-rate works that deck the line,
'Twas this hand drew them, they are mine,
And I declare among them all That each is an Original.”
Syntax.—
“'Tis not for me to controvert
What you so boldly do assert;
But as my eye these drawings strike,
They, my good friend, are all alike.
156
That they are Copies of each other.
If so, why, surely, he who calls These copied works Originals,
Gives such a meaning to the word, I, as a scholar, never heard.”
Artist.—
“I tell you, if the copies prove,
(Nor does my understanding rove,)
True both in tint and touch and line, To the original design,
And copied by the self-same hand
That does my pencil's power command;
Those Drawings must, to Critic eye, Share in th'Originality;
And be the number what they may, If they unerring Truth display,
I say, in spite of envy's brawls, That they are all Originals.”
Syntax.—
“At least, I think it must be known,
That, Mr. Artist, you are one.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |