It may be reasonably expected that I should say something on my own
behalf, in respect to my present undertaking. First, then, the reader may
be pleased to know, that it was not of my own choice that I undertook
this work. Many of our most skilful painters, and other artists, were
pleased to recommend this author to me, as one who perfectly understood
the rules of painting; who gave the best and most concise instructions
for performance, and the surest to inform the judgment of all who loved
this noble art: that they who before, were rather fond of it, than
knowingly admired it, might defend their inclination by their reason;
that they might understand those excellencies which they blindly valued,
so as not to be farther imposed on by bad pieces, and to know when nature
was well imitated by the most able masters. It is true indeed, and they
acknowledge it, that beside the rules which are given in this treatise,
or which can be given in any other, to make a perfect judgment of good
pictures, and to value them more or less, when compared with one another,
there is farther required a long conversation with the best pieces, which
are not very frequent either in France or England; yet some we have,
not only from the hands of Holbein, Rubens, and Vandyck, (one of them
admirable for history-painting, and the other two for portraits,) but of
many Flemish masters, and those not inconsiderable, though for design not
equal to the Italians. And of these latter also, we are not unfurnished
with some pieces of Raphaell, Titian, Correggio, Michael Angelo, and
others.
But to return to my own undertaking of this translation. I freely own
that I thought myself incapable of performing it, either to their
satisfaction, or my own credit. Not but that I understood the original
Latin, and the French author, perhaps as well as most Englishmen; but I
was not sufficiently versed in the terms of art; and therefore thought
that many of those persons who put this honourable task on me, were
more able to perform it themselves,—as undoubtedly they were. But they,
assuring me of their assistance in correcting my faults where I spoke
improperly, I was encouraged to attempt it, that I might not be wanting
in what I could, to satisfy the desires of so many gentlemen, who were
willing to give the world this useful work. They have effectually
performed their promise to me, and I have been as careful, on my side, to
take their advice in all things; so that the reader may assure himself of
a tolerable translation,—not elegant, for I proposed not that to myself,
but familiar, clear, and instructive: in any of which parts if I have
failed, the fault lies wholly at my door. In this one particular only,
I must beg the reader’s pardon. The prose translation of this poem is
not free from poetical expressions, and I dare not promise that some of
them are not fustian, or at least highly metaphorical; but this being a
fault in the first digestion, (that is, the original Latin,) was not to
be remedied in the second, viz. the translation. And I may confidently
say, that whoever had attempted it must have fallen into the same
inconvenience, or a much greater, that of a false version.
When I undertook this work, I was already engaged in the translation
of Virgil,[113] from whom I have borrowed only two months; and am now
returning to that which I ought to understand better. In the mean time
I beg the reader’s pardon, for entertaining him so long with myself:
it is an usual part of ill manners in all authors, and almost in all
mankind, to trouble others with their business; and I was so sensible of
it beforehand, that I had not now committed it, unless some concernments
of the reader’s had been interwoven with my own. But I know not, while I
am atoning for one error, if I am not falling into another; for I have
been importuned to say something farther of this art; and to make some
observations on it, in relation to the likeness and agreement which it
has with poetry, its sister. But before I proceed, it will not be amiss,
if I copy from Bellori, (a most ingenious author yet living,) some part
of his idea of a painter,[114] which cannot be unpleasing, at least
to such who are conversant in the philosophy of Plato; and, to avoid
tediousness, I will not translate the whole discourse, but take and leave
as I find occasion.
“God Almighty, in the fabric of the universe, first contemplated himself,
and reflected on his own excellencies; from which he drew and constituted
those first forms which are called ideas; so that every species which was
afterwards expressed, was produced from that first idea, forming that
wonderful contexture of all created beings. But the celestial bodies
above the moon being incorruptible, and not subject to change, remained
for ever fair, and in perpetual order. On the contrary, all things which
are sublunary are subject to change, to deformity, and to decay. And
though nature always intends a consummate beauty in her productions,
yet through the inequality of the matter, the forms are altered; and in
particular, human beauty suffers alteration for the worse, as we see to
our mortification, in the deformities and disproportions which are in
us. For which reason, the artful painter and the sculptor, imitating the
Divine Maker, form to themselves, as well as they are able, a model of
the superior beauties; and reflecting on them, endeavour to correct and
amend the common nature, and to represent it as it was at first created,
without fault, either in colour, or in lineament.
“This idea, which we may call the goddess of painting and of sculpture,
descends upon the marble and the cloth, and becomes the original of those
arts; and being measured by the compass of the intellect, is itself the
measure of the performing hand; and being animated by the imagination,
infuses life into the image. The idea of the painter and the sculptor is
undoubtedly that perfect and excellent example of the mind, by imitation
of which imagined form all things are represented which fall under human
sight: such is the definition which is made by Cicero in his book of the
“Orator” to Brutus:—‘As therefore in forms and figures there is somewhat
which is excellent and perfect, to which imagined species all things are
referred by imitation, which are the objects of sight, in like manner we
behold the species of eloquence in our minds, the _effigies_ or actual
image of which we seek in the organs of our hearing.’ This is likewise
confirmed by Proclus in the dialogue of Plato, called “Timæus.” ‘If, says
he, you take a man as he is made by nature, and compare him with another,
who is the effect of art, the work of nature will always appear the
less beautiful, because art is more accurate than nature.’ But Zeuxis,
who, from the choice which he made of five virgins, drew that wonderful
picture of Helena, which Cicero, in his “Orator” before-mentioned,
sets before us as the most perfect example of beauty, at the same time
admonishes a painter, to contemplate the ideas of the most natural forms,
and to make a judicious choice of several bodies, all of them the most
elegant which he can find; by which we may plainly understand, that he
thought it impossible to find in any one body all those perfections which
he sought for the accomplishment of a Helena, because nature in any
individual person makes nothing that is perfect in all its parts. For
this reason Maximus Tyrius also says, that the image which is taken by
a painter from several bodies, produces a beauty which it is impossible
to find in any single natural body, approaching to the perfection of
the fairest statues. Thus nature on this account is so much inferior to
art, that those artists who propose to themselves only the imitation and
likeness of such or such a particular person, without election of those
ideas before-mentioned, have often been reproached for that omission.
Demetrius was taxed for being too natural; Dionysius was also blamed for
drawing men like us, and was commonly called ανθρωπόγραφος, that is, a
painter of men. In our times, Michael Angelo da Caravaggio was esteemed
too natural. He drew persons as they were; and Bamboccio, and most of the
Dutch painters, have drawn the worst likeness. Lysippus of old upbraided
the common sort of sculptors, for making men such as they were found in
nature; and boasted of himself, that he made them as they ought to be:
which is a precept of Aristotle, given as well to poets as to painters.
Phidias raised an admiration, even to astonishment, in those who beheld
his statues, with the forms which he gave to his gods and heroes, by
imitating the idea, rather than nature. And Cicero, speaking of him,
affirms, that figuring Jupiter and Pallas, he did not contemplate any
object from whence he took the likeness, but considered in his own mind
a great and admirable form of beauty; and according to that image in
his soul, he directed the operation of his hand. Seneca also seems to
wonder, that Phidias, having never beheld either Jove or Pallas, yet
could conceive their divine images in his mind. Apollonius Tyanæus says
the same in other words,—that the fancy more instructs the painter, than
the imitation; for the last makes only the things which it sees, but the
first makes also the things which it never sees.
“Leon Battista Alberti tells us, that we ought not so much to love the
likeness as the beauty, and to choose from the fairest bodies severally
the fairest parts. Leonardo da Vinci instructs the painter to form this
idea to himself; and Raffaelle, the greatest of all modern masters,
writes thus to Castiglione, concerning his Galatea: ‘To paint a fair
one, it is necessary for me to see many fair ones; but because there is
so great a scarcity of lovely women, I am constrained to make use of
one certain idea, which I have formed to myself in my own fancy.’ Guido
Rheni sending to Rome his St Michael, which he had painted for the church
of the Capuchins, at the same time wrote to Monsignor Massano, who was
_Maestro di Casa_, (or Steward of the House,) to Pope Urban the Eighth,
in this manner: ‘I wish I had the wings of an angel, to have ascended
into Paradise, and there to have beheld the forms of those beautiful
spirits, from which I might have copied my archangel. But not being able
to mount so high, it was in vain for me to search his resemblance here
below; so that I was forced to make an introspection into my own mind,
and into that idea of beauty which I have formed in my own imagination. I
have likewise created there the contrary idea of deformity and ugliness;
but I leave the consideration of it, till I paint the devil; and in the
mean time, shun the very thought of it as much as possibly I can, and am
even endeavouring to blot it wholly out of my remembrance.’
“There was not any lady in all antiquity, who was mistress of so much
beauty as was to be found in the Venus of Gnidus, made by Praxiteles,
or the Minerva of Athens, by Phidias; which was therefore called the
_beautiful form_. Neither is there any man of the present age equal in
the strength, proportion, and knitting of his limbs, to the Hercules
of Farnese, made by Glycon; or any woman, who can justly be compared
with the Medicean Venus of Cleomenes. And upon this account, the
noblest poets and the best orators, when they desired to celebrate any
extraordinary beauty, are forced to have recourse to statues and pictures
and to draw their persons and faces into comparison. Ovid, endeavouring
to express the beauty of Cyllarus, the fairest of the Centaurs,
celebrates him as next in perfection to the most admirable statues:
_Gratus in ore vigor, cervix, humerique, manusque,_
_Pectoraque artificum laudatis proxima signis._
A pleasing vigour his fair face expressed;
His neck, his hands, his shoulders, and his breast,
Did next, in gracefulness and beauty, stand
To breathing figures of the sculptor’s hand.
In another place he sets Apelles above Venus:
_Si Venerem Cous nunquam pinxisset Apelles,_
_Mersa sub æquoreis illa lateret aquis._
Thus varied:
One birth to seas the Cyprian goddess owed,
A second birth the painter’s art bestowed:
Less by the seas than by his power was given;
They made her live, but he advanced to heaven.
“The idea of this beauty is indeed various, according to the several
forms which the painter or sculptor would describe; as one in strength,
another in magnanimity: and sometimes it consists in cheerfulness, and
sometimes in delicacy; and is always diversified by the sex and age.
“The beauty of Jove is one, and that of Juno another; Hercules and Cupid
are perfect beauties, though of different kinds; for beauty is only
that which makes all things as they are in their proper and perfect
nature, which the best painters always choose by contemplating the
forms of each. We ought farther to consider, that a picture being the
representation of a human action, the painter ought to retain in his mind
the examples of all affections and passions, as a poet preserves the
idea of an angry man, of one who is fearful, sad, or merry, and so of
all the rest; for it is impossible to express that with the hand, which
never entered into the imagination. In this manner, as I have rudely and
briefly shewn you, painters and sculptors, choosing the most elegant
natural beauties, perfectionate the idea, and advance their art even
above nature itself in her individual productions; which is the utmost
mastery of human performance.
“From hence arises that astonishment, and almost adoration, which is
paid by the knowing to those divine remainders of antiquity. From
hence Phidias, Lysippus, and other noble sculptors, are still held
in veneration; and Apelles, Zeuxis, Protogenes, and other admirable
painters, though their works are perished, are and will be eternally
admired; who all of them drew after the ideas of perfection, which
are the miracles of nature, the providence of the understanding, the
exemplars of the mind, the light of the fancy; the sun, which, from its
rising, inspired the statue of Memnon, and the fire, which warmed into
life the image of Prometheus. It is this, which causes the Graces and the
Loves to take up their habitations in the hardest marble, and to subsist
in the emptiness of light and shadows. But since the idea of eloquence
is as far inferior to that of painting, as the force of words is to the
sight, I must here break off abruptly, and having conducted the reader,
as it were, to a secret walk, there leave him in the midst of silence, to
contemplate those ideas which I have only sketched, and which every man
must finish for himself.”
In these pompous expressions, or such as these, the Italian has given you
his idea of a Painter; and though I cannot much commend the style, I must
needs say, there is somewhat in the matter. Plato himself is accustomed
to write loftily, imitating, as the critics tell us, the manner of Homer;
but surely that inimitable poet had not so much of smoke in his writing,
though not less of fire. But, in short, this is the present genius of
Italy. What Philostratus tells us in the proem of his Figures,[115] is
somewhat plainer; and therefore I will translate it almost word for
word:—“He who will rightly govern the art of painting, ought of necessity
first to understand human nature. He ought likewise to be endued with a
genius to express the signs of their passions, whom he represents; and to
make the dumb, as it were, to speak. He must yet further understand what
is contained in the constitution of the cheeks, in the temperament of
the eyes, in the naturalness (if I may so call it) of the eyebrows; and
in short, whatsoever belongs to the mind and thought. He, who thoroughly
possesses all these things, will obtain the whole; and the hand will
exquisitely represent the action of every particular person. If it happen
that he be either mad or angry, melancholic or cheerful, a sprightly
youth or a languishing lover; in one word, he will be able to paint
whatsoever is proportionable to any one. And even in all this there is
a sweet error, without causing any shame; for the eyes and minds of the
beholders being fastened on objects which have no real being, as if they
were truly existent, and being induced by them to believe them so, what
pleasure is it not capable of giving? The ancients, and other wise men,
have written many things concerning the symmetry which is in the art of
painting,—constituting, as it were, some certain laws for the proportion
of every member; not thinking it possible for a painter to undertake the
expression of those motions which are in the mind, without a concurrent
harmony in the natural measure; for that which is out of its own kind and
measure, is not received from nature, whose motion is always right. On a
serious consideration of this matter, it will be found, that the art of
painting has a wonderful affinity with that of poetry; and that there is
betwixt them a certain common imagination. For, as the poets introduce
the gods and heroes, and all those things which are either majestical,
honest, or delightful, in like manner the painters, by the virtue of
their outlines, colours, lights, and shadows, represent the same things
and persons in their pictures.”
Thus, as convoy-ships either accompany or should accompany their
merchants,[116] till they may prosecute the rest of their voyage without
danger; so Philostratus has brought me thus far on my way, and I can now
sail on without him. He has begun to speak of the great relation betwixt
painting and poetry, and thither the greatest part of this discourse,
by my promise, was directed. I have not engaged myself to any perfect
method, neither am I loaded with a full cargo; it is sufficient if I
bring a sample of some goods in this voyage. It will be easy for others
to add more, when the commerce is settled; for a treatise twice as large
as this of painting, could not contain all that might be said on the
parallel of these two sister arts. I will take my rise from Bellori,
before I proceed to the author of this book.
The business of his preface is to prove, that a learned painter should
form to himself an idea of perfect nature. This image he is to set before
his mind in all his undertakings, and to draw from thence, as from a
storehouse, the beauties which are to enter into his work; thereby
correcting nature from what actually she is in individuals, to what she
ought to be, and what she was created. Now, as this idea of perfection is
of little use in portraits, or the resemblances of particular persons, so
neither is it in the characters of comedy and tragedy, which are never
to be made perfect, but always to be drawn with some specks of frailty
and deficience; such as they have been described to us in history, if
they were real characters, or such as the poet began to shew them at
their first appearance, if they were only fictitious or imaginary. The
perfection of such stage-characters consists chiefly in their likeness
to the deficient faulty nature, which is their original; only, as it is
observed more at large hereafter, in such cases there will always be
found a better likeness and a worse, and the better is constantly to be
chosen; I mean in tragedy, which represents the figures of the highest
form amongst mankind. Thus in portraits, the painter will not take that
side of the face, which has some notorious blemish in it; but either
draw it in profile, (as Apelles did Antigonus, who had lost one of his
eyes,) or else shadow the more imperfect side; for an ingenious flattery
is to be allowed to the professors of both arts, so long as the likeness
is not destroyed. It is true, that all manner of imperfections must not
be taken away from the characters; and the reason is, that there may be
left some grounds of pity for their misfortunes. We can never be grieved
for their miseries, who are thoroughly wicked, and have thereby justly
called their calamities on themselves. Such men are the natural objects
of our hatred, not of our commiseration. If, on the other side, their
characters were wholly perfect, (such as, for example, the character of a
saint or martyr in a play,) his or her misfortunes would produce impious
thoughts in the beholders; they would accuse the heavens of injustice,
and think of leaving a religion where piety was so ill requited. I say,
the greater part would be tempted so to do, I say not that they ought;
and the consequence is too dangerous for the practice. In this I have
accused myself for my own St Catharine;[117] but let truth prevail.
Sophocles has taken the just medium in his “Œdipus.” He is somewhat
arrogant at his first entrance, and is too inquisitive through the whole
tragedy; yet these imperfections being balanced by great virtues, they
hinder not our compassion for his miseries; neither yet can they destroy
that horror, which the nature of his crimes has excited in us. Such in
painting are the warts and moles, which, adding a likeness to the face,
are not therefore to be omitted; but these produce no loathing in us;
but how far to proceed, and where to stop, is left to the judgment of
the poet and the painter. In comedy there is somewhat more of the worse
likeness to be taken, because that is often to produce laughter, which
is occasioned by the sight of some deformity; but for this I refer the
reader to Aristotle. It is a sharp manner of instruction for the vulgar,
who are never well amended, till they are more than sufficiently exposed.
That I may return to the beginning of this remark concerning perfect
ideas, I have only this to say,—that the parallel is often true in epic
poetry. The heroes of the poets are to be drawn according to this rule.
There is scarce a frailty to be left in the best of them, any more than
is to be found in a divine nature; and if Æneas sometimes weeps, it is
not in bemoaning his own miseries, but those which his people undergo.
If this be an imperfection, the Son of God, when he was incarnate, shed
tears of compassion over Jerusalem; and Lentulus[118] describes him
often weeping, but never laughing; so that Virgil is justified even from
the holy scriptures. I have but one word more, which for once I will
anticipate from the author of this book. Though it must be an idea of
perfection, from which both the epic poet and the history-painter draws,
yet all perfections are not suitable to all subjects; but every one must
be designed according to that perfect beauty which is proper to him.
An Apollo must be distinguished from a Jupiter, a Pallas from a Venus;
and so, in poetry, an Æneas from any other hero; for piety is his chief
perfection. Homer’s Achilles is a kind of exception to this rule; but
then he is not a perfect hero, nor so intended by the poet. All his gods
had somewhat of human imperfection, for which he has been taxed by Plato,
as an imitator of what was bad; but Virgil observed his fault, and mended
it. Yet Achilles was perfect in the strength of his body, and the vigour
of his mind. Had he been less passionate, or less revengeful, the poet
well foresaw that Hector had been killed, and Troy taken, at the first
assault; which had destroyed the beautiful contrivance of his Iliads, and
the moral of preventing discord amongst confederate princes, which was
his principal intention. For the moral (as Bossu observes,[119]) is the
first business of the poet, as being the groundwork of his instruction.
This being formed, he contrives such a design, or fable, as may be most
suitable to the moral; after this he begins to think of the persons whom
he is to employ in carrying on his design; and gives them the manners
which are most proper to their several characters. The thoughts and words
are the last parts, which give beauty and colouring to the piece.
When I say that the manners of the hero ought to be good in perfection,
I contradict not the Marquis of Normanby’s opinion, in that admirable
verse,[120] where, speaking of a perfect character, he calls it
“A faultless monster, which the world ne’er knew;”
for that excellent critic intended only to speak of dramatic characters,
and not of epic.
Thus at least I have shewn, that in the most perfect poem, which is that
of Virgil, a perfect idea was required and followed; and consequently
that all succeeding poets ought rather to imitate him, than even Homer. I
will now proceed as I promised, to the author of this book.
He tells you almost in the first lines of it, that “the chief end of
painting is, to please the eyes; and it is one great end of poetry to
please the mind.” Thus far the parallel of the arts holds true; with this
difference, that the principal end of painting is to please, and the
chief design of poetry is to instruct. In this the latter seems to have
the advantage of the former; but if we consider the artists themselves
on both sides, certainly their aims are the very same; they would both
make sure of pleasing, and that in preference to instruction.—Next, the
means of this pleasure is by deceit; one imposes on the sight, and the
other on the understanding. Fiction is of the essence of poetry, as well
as of painting; there is a resemblance in one, of human bodies, things,
and actions, which are not real; and in the other, of a true story by a
fiction; and as all stories are not proper subjects for an epic poem or
a tragedy, so neither are they for a noble picture. The subjects both
of the one and of the other, ought to have nothing of immoral, low, or
filthy in them; but this being treated at large in the book itself, I
wave it, to avoid repetition. Only I must add, that though Catullus,[121]
Ovid, and others, were of another opinion,—that the subject of poets,
and even their thoughts and expressions, might be loose, provided their
lives were chaste and holy, yet there are no such licences permitted
in that art, any more than, in painting, to design and colour obscene
nudities. _Vita proba est_, is no excuse; for it will scarcely be
admitted, that either a poet or a painter can be chaste, who give us the
contrary examples in their writings and their pictures. We see nothing of
this kind in Virgil; that which comes the nearest to it, is the Adventure
of the Cave, where Dido and Æneas were driven by the storm; yet even
there the poet pretends a marriage before the consummation, and Juno
herself was present at it. Neither is there any expression in that story,
which a Roman matron might not read without a blush. Besides, the poet
passes it over as hastily as he can, as if he were afraid of staying in
the cave with the two lovers, and of being a witness to their actions.
Now I suppose that a painter would not be much commended, who should pick
out this cavern from the whole Æneids, when there is not another in the
work. He had better leave them in their obscurity, than let in a flash of
lightning to clear the natural darkness of the place, by which he must
discover himself, as much as them. The altar-pieces, and holy decorations
of painting, shew, _that_ art may be applied to better uses, as well as
poetry; and amongst many other instances, the Farnesian gallery, painted
by Annibale Caracci, is a sufficient witness yet remaining; the whole
work being morally instructive, and particularly the _Herculis Bivium_,
which is a perfect triumph of virtue over vice; as it is wonderfully well
described by the ingenious Bellori.
Hitherto I have only told the reader, what ought not to be the subject
of a picture or of a poem. What it ought to be on either side, our
author tells us: it must in general be great and noble; and in this the
parallel is exactly true. The subject of a poet, either in tragedy or
in an epic poem, is a great action of some illustrious hero. It is the
same in painting; not every action, nor every person, is considerable
enough to enter into the cloth. It must be the anger of an Achilles, the
piety of an Æneas, the sacrifice of an Iphigenia, for heroines as well as
heroes are comprehended in the rule; but the parallel is more complete
in tragedy, than in an epic poem. For as a tragedy may be made out of
many particular episodes of Homer or of Virgil, so may a noble picture be
designed out of this or that particular story in either author. History
is also fruitful of designs both for the painter and the tragic poet:
Curtius throwing himself into a gulph, and the two Decii sacrificing
themselves for the safety of their country, are subjects for tragedy and
picture. Such is Scipio restoring the Spanish bride,[122] whom he either
loved, or may be supposed to love; by which he gained the hearts of a
great nation to interest themselves for Rome against Carthage. These are
all but particular pieces in Livy’s History; and yet are full complete
subjects for the pen and pencil. Now the reason of this is evident.
Tragedy and Picture are more narrowly circumscribed by the mechanic rules
of time and place, than the epic poem. The time of this last is left
indefinite. It is true, Homer took up only the space of eight-and-forty
days for his Iliads; but whether Virgil’s action was comprehended in a
year, or somewhat more, is not determined by Bossu. Homer made the place
of his action, Troy, and the Grecian camp besieging it. Virgil introduces
his Æneas sometimes in Sicily, sometimes in Carthage, and other times at
Cumæ, before he brings him to Laurentum; and even after that, he wanders
again to the kingdom of Evander, and some parts of Tuscany, before he
returns to finish the war by the death of Turnus. But tragedy, according
to the practice of the ancients, was always confined within the compass
of twenty-four hours, and seldom takes up so much time. As for the
place of it, it was always one, and that not in a larger sense, (as for
example, a whole city, or two or three several houses in it,) but the
market, or some other public, place, common to the chorus and all the
actors; which established law of theirs I have not an opportunity to
examine in this place, because I cannot do it without digression from
my subject; though it seems too strict at the first appearance, because
it excludes all secret intrigues, which are the beauties of the modern
stage; for nothing can be carried on with privacy, when the chorus is
supposed to be always present.—But to proceed; I must say this to the
advantage of painting, even above tragedy, that what this last represents
in the space of many hours, the former shews us in one moment.[123] The
action, the passion, and the manners of so many persons as are contained
in a picture are to be discerned at once, in the twinkling of an eye; at
least they would be so, if the sight could travel over so many different
objects all at once, or the mind could digest them all at the same
instant, or point of time. Thus, in the famous picture of Poussin, which
represents the Institution of the Blessed Sacrament, you see our Saviour
and his twelve disciples, all concurring in the same action, after
different manners, and in different postures; only the manners of Judas
are distinguished from the rest. Here is but one indivisible point of
time observed; but one action performed by so many persons, in one room,
and at the same table; yet the eye cannot comprehend at once the whole
object, nor the mind follow it so fast; it is considered at leisure, and
seen by intervals. Such are the subjects of noble pictures; and such are
only to be undertaken by noble hands.
There are other parts of nature, which are meaner, and yet are the
subjects both of painters and of poets. For, to proceed in the parallel;
as comedy is a representation of human life in inferior persons, and
low subjects, and by that means creeps into the nature of poetry, and
is a kind of juniper, a shrub belonging to the species of cedar, so
is the painting of clowns, the representation of a Dutch kermis,[124]
the brutal sport of snick-or-snee, and a thousand other things of this
mean invention; a kind of picture which belongs to nature, but of the
lowest form. Such is a lazar in comparison to a Venus: both are drawn
in human figures; they have faces alike, though not like faces. There
is yet a lower sort of poetry and painting, which is out of nature; for
a farce is that in poetry, which grotesque is in a picture. The persons
and action of a farce are all unnatural, and the manners false, that
is, inconsisting with the characters of mankind. Grotesque painting is
the just resemblance of this; and Horace begins his “Art of Poetry” by
describing such a figure, with a man’s head, a horse’s neck, the wings of
a bird, and a fish’s tail; parts of different species jumbled together,
according to the mad imagination of the dauber; and the end of all
this, as he tells you afterward, to cause laughter: a very monster in a
Bartholomew-fair, for the mob to gape at for their two-pence. Laughter
is indeed the propriety of a man, but just enough to distinguish him
from his elder brother with four legs. It is a kind of bastard-pleasure
too, taken in at the eyes of the vulgar gazers, and at the ears of the
beastly audience. Church-painters use it to divert the honest countryman
at public prayers, and keep his eyes open at a heavy sermon; and farce
scribblers make use of the same noble invention, to entertain citizens,
country-gentlemen, and Covent-Garden fops. If they are merry, all goes
well on the poet’s side. The better sort go thither too, but in despair
of sense and the just images of nature, which are the adequate pleasures
of the mind; but the author can give the stage no better than what was
given him by nature; and the actors must represent such things as they
are capable to perform, and by which both they and the scribbler may get
their living. After all, it is a good thing to laugh at any rate; and
if a straw can tickle a man, it is an instrument of happiness. Beasts
can weep when they suffer, but they cannot laugh. And as Sir William
D’Avenant observes in his Preface to “Gondibert,” “It is the wisdom of a
government to permit plays, (he might have added—farces,) as it is the
prudence of a carter to put bells upon his horses, to make them carry
their burthens cheerfully.”
I have already shewn, that one main end of poetry and painting is to
please, and have said something of the kinds of both, and of their
subjects, in which they bear a great resemblance to each other. I must
now consider them, as they are great and noble arts; and as they are
arts, they must have rules, which may direct them to their common end.
To all arts and sciences, but more particularly to these, may be applied
what Hippocrates says of physic, as I find him cited by an eminent French
critic: “Medicine has long subsisted in the world. The principles of
it are certain, and it has a certain way; by both which there has been
found, in the course of many ages, an infinite number of things, the
experience of which has confirmed its usefulness and goodness. All that
is wanting to the perfection of this art will undoubtedly be found, if
able men, and such as are instructed in the ancient rules, will make
a farther inquiry into it; and endeavour to arrive at that which is
hitherto unknown, by that which is already known. But all who, having
rejected the ancient rules, and taken the opposite ways, yet boast
themselves to be masters of this art, do but deceive others, and are
themselves deceived; for that is absolutely impossible.”
This is notoriously true in these two arts; for the way to please being
to imitate nature, both the poets and the painters in ancient times,
and in the best ages, have studied her; and from the practice of both
these arts the rules have been drawn, by which we are instructed how
to please, and to compass that end which they obtained, by following
their example; for nature is still the same in all ages, and can never
be contrary to herself. Thus, from the practice of Æschylus, Sophocles,
and Euripides, Aristotle drew his rules for tragedy, and Philostratus
for painting. Thus, amongst the moderns, the Italian and French critics,
by studying the precepts of Aristotle and Horace, and having the example
of the Grecian poets before their eyes, have given us the rules of
modern tragedy; and thus the critics of the same countries in the art of
painting, have given the precepts of perfecting that art.
It is true that poetry has one advantage over painting in these last
ages, that we have still the remaining examples both of the Greek and
Latin poets; whereas the painters have nothing left them from Apelles,
Protogenes, Parrhasius, Xeuxis, and the rest, but only the testimonies
which are given of their incomparable works. But instead of this, they
have some of their best statues, bass-relievos, columns, obelisks, &c.
which were saved out of the common ruin, and are still preserved in
Italy; and by well distinguishing what is proper to sculpture, and what
to painting, and what is common to them both, they have judiciously
repaired that loss. And the great genius of Raffaelle, and others, having
succeeded to the times of barbarism and ignorance, the knowledge of
painting is now arrived to a supreme perfection, though the performance
of it is much declined in the present age. The greatest age for poetry
amongst the Romans was certainly that of Augustus Cæsar: and yet we are
told that painting was then at its lowest ebb; and perhaps sculpture
was also declining at the same time. In the reign of Domitian, and some
who succeeded him, poetry was but meanly cultivated, but painting
eminently flourished. I am not here to give the history of the two
arts; how they were both in a manner extinguished by the irruption of
the barbarous nations, and both restored about the times of Leo the
Tenth, Charles the Fifth, and Francis the First; though I might observe,
that neither Ariosto, nor any of his contemporary poets, ever arrived
at the excellency of Raffaelle, Titian, and the rest, in painting.
But in revenge, at this time, or lately, in many countries, poetry is
better practised than her sister-art. To what height the magnificence
and encouragement of the present king of France may carry painting and
sculpture, is uncertain; but by what he has done before the war in which
he is engaged, we may expect what he will do after the happy conclusion
of a peace, which is the prayer and wish of all those who have not an
interest to prolong the miseries of Europe. For it is most certain,
as our author, amongst others, has observed, that reward is the spur
of virtue, as well in all good arts, as in all laudable attempts; and
emulation, which is the other spur, will never be wanting, either amongst
poets or painters, when particular rewards and prizes are proposed to the
best deservers.
But to return from this digression, though it was almost necessary.
All the rules of painting are methodically, concisely, and yet clearly
delivered in this present treatise, which I have translated. Bossu has
not given more exact rules for the epic poem, nor Dacier for tragedy,
in his late excellent translation of Aristotle, and his notes upon him,
than our Fresnoy has made for painting; with the parallel of which I must
resume my discourse, following my author’s text, though with more brevity
than I intended, because Virgil calls me.
The principal and most important part of painting is, to know what is
most beautiful in nature, and most proper for that art. That which is the
most beautiful is the most noble subject: so in poetry, tragedy is more
beautiful than comedy; because, as I said, the persons are greater whom
the poet instructs, and consequently the instructions of more benefit to
mankind: the action is likewise greater and more noble, and thence is
derived the greater and more noble pleasure.
To imitate nature well in whatsoever subject, is the perfection of
both arts; and that picture, and that poem, which comes nearest to the
resemblance of nature, is the best. But it follows not, that what pleases
most in either kind is therefore good, but what ought to please. Our
depraved appetites, and ignorance of the arts, mislead our judgments,
and cause us often to take that for true imitation of nature, which has
no resemblance of nature in it. To inform our judgments, and to reform
our tastes, rules were invented, that by them we might discern—when
nature was imitated, and how nearly. I have been forced to recapitulate
these things, because mankind is not more liable to deceit, than it is
willing to continue in a pleasing error, strengthened by a long habitude.
The imitation of nature is therefore justly constituted as the general,
and indeed the only, rule of pleasing, both in poetry and painting.
Aristotle tells us, that imitation pleases, because it affords matter
for a reasoner to inquire into the truth or falsehood of imitation,[125]
by comparing its likeness, or unlikeness, with the original; but by
this rule, every speculation in nature, whose truth falls under the
inquiry of a philosopher, must produce the same delight, which is not
true. I should rather assign another reason. Truth is the object of our
understanding, as good is of our will; and the understanding can no more
be delighted with a lie, than the will can choose an apparent evil. As
truth is the end of all our speculations, so the discovery of it is the
pleasure of them; and since a true knowledge of nature gives us pleasure,
a lively imitation of it, either in poetry or painting, must of necessity
produce a much greater: for both these arts, as I said before, are not
only true imitations of nature, but of the best nature, of that which is
wrought up to a nobler pitch. They present us with images more perfect
than the life in any individual; and we have the pleasure to see all
the scattered beauties of nature united by a happy chemistry, without
its deformities or faults. They are imitations of the passions, which
always move, and therefore consequently please; for without motion there
can be no delight, which cannot be considered but as an active passion.
When we view these elevated ideas of nature, the result of that view is
admiration, which is always the cause of pleasure.
This foregoing remark, which gives the reason why imitation pleases, was
sent me by Mr Walter Moyle, a most ingenious young gentleman, conversant
in all the studies of humanity much above his years. He had also
furnished me, according to my request, with all the particular passages
in Aristotle and Horace, which are used by them to explain the art of
poetry by that of painting; which, if ever I have time to retouch this
Essay, shall be inserted in their places.
Having thus shewn that imitation pleases, and why it pleases in both
these arts, it follows, that some rules of imitation are necessary to
obtain the end; for without rules there can be no art, any more than
there can be a house without a door to conduct you into it.
The principal parts of painting and poetry next follow. Invention is the
first part, and absolutely necessary to them both; yet no rule ever was
or ever can be given, how to compass it. A happy genius is the gift of
nature: it depends on the influence of the stars, say the astrologers; on
the organs of the body, say the naturalists; it is the particular gift of
heaven, say the divines, both Christians and heathens. How to improve it,
many books can teach us; how to obtain it, none; that nothing can be done
without it, all agree:
_Tu nihil invitâ dices faciesve Minervâ._
Without invention, a painter is but a copier, and a poet but a plagiary
of others. Both are allowed sometimes to copy, and translate; but, as
our author tells you, that is not the best part of their reputation.
“Imitators are but a servile kind of cattle,” says the poet; or at
best, the keepers of cattle for other men: they have nothing which is
properly their own: that is a sufficient mortification for me, while I
am translating Virgil. But to copy the best author, is a kind of praise,
if I perform it as I ought; as a copy after Raffaelle is more to be
commended than an original of any indifferent painter.
Under this head of _Invention_ is placed the disposition of the work,—to
put all things in a beautiful order and harmony, that the whole may be
of a piece. The compositions of the painter should be conformable to
the text of ancient authors, to the customs, and the times. And this
is exactly the same in poetry; Homer and Virgil are to be our guides
in the epic; Sophocles and Euripides in tragedy: in all things we are
to imitate the customs and the times of those persons and things which
we represent: not to make new rules of the drama, as Lopez de Vega has
attempted unsuccessfully to do,[126] but to be content to follow our
masters, who understood nature better than we. But if the story which we
treat be modern, we are to vary the customs, according to the time and
the country where the scene of action lies; for this is still to imitate
nature, which is always the same, though in a different dress.
As in the composition of a picture the painter is to take care that
nothing enter into it, which is not proper or convenient to the subject,
so likewise is the poet to reject all incidents which are foreign to
his poem, and are naturally no parts of it; they are wens, and other
excrescences, which belong not to the body, but deform it. No person, no
incident, in the piece, or in the play, but must be of use to carry on
the main design. All things else are like six fingers to the hand, when
nature, which is superfluous in nothing, can do her work with five. A
painter must reject all trifling ornaments; so must a poet refuse all
tedious and unnecessary descriptions. A robe which is too heavy is less
an ornament than a burthen.
In poetry Horace calls these things—_versus inopes rerum, nugæque
canoræ_; there are also the _lucus et ara Dianæ_, which he mentions
in the same “Art of Poetry.” But since there must be ornaments both
in painting and poetry, if they are not necessary, they must at least
be decent; that is, in their due place, and but moderately used. The
painter is not to take so much pains about the drapery, as about the
face, where the principal resemblance lies; neither is the poet, who
is working up a passion, to makes similes, which will certainly make
it languish. My Montezuma dies with a fine one in his mouth;[127] but
it is ambitious, and out of season. When there are more figures in a
picture than are necessary, or at least ornamental, our author calls them
“figures to be let;” because the picture has no use of them. So I have
seen in some modern plays above twenty actors, when the action has not
required half the number.[128] In the principal figures of a picture, the
painter is to employ the sinews of his art; for in them consists the
principal beauty of his work. Our author saves me the comparison with
tragedy; for he says, that herein he is to imitate the tragic poet, who
employs his utmost force in those places, wherein consists the height and
beauty of the action.
Du Fresnoy, whom I follow, makes _design_, or _drawing_, the second
part of painting; but the rules which he gives concerning the posture
of the figures, are almost wholly proper to that art, and admit not any
comparison, that I know, with poetry. The posture of a poetic figure is,
as I conceive, the description of his heroes in the performance of such
or such an action; as of Achilles, just in the act of killing Hector, or
of Æneas, who has Turnus under him. Both the poet and the painter vary
the posture, according to the action or passion which they represent, of
the same person; but all must be great and graceful in them. The same
Æneas must be drawn a suppliant to Dido, with respect in his gestures,
and humility in his eyes; but when he is forced, in his own defence, to
kill Lausus, the poet shews him compassionate, and tempering the severity
of his looks with a reluctance to the action which he is going to
perform. He has pity on his beauty and his youth, and is loth to destroy
such a masterpiece of nature. He considers Lausus rescuing his father at
the hazard of his own life, as an image of himself, when he took Anchises
on his shoulders, and bore him safe through the rage of the fire, and the
opposition of his enemies; and therefore, in the posture of a retiring
man, who avoids the combat, he stretches out his arm in sign of peace,
with his right foot drawn a little back, and his breast bending inward,
more like an orator than a soldier; and seems to dissuade the young man
from pulling on his destiny, by attempting more than he was able to
perform. Take the passage as I have thus translated it:
Shouts of applause ran ringing through the field,
To see the son the vanquished father shield:
All, fired with noble emulation, strive,
And with a storm of darts to distance drive
The Trojan chief; who, held at bay, from far
On his Vulcanian orb sustained the war.
Æneas, thus o’erwhelmed on every side, }
Their first assault undaunted did abide, }
And thus to Lausus, loud with friendly threatening cried:— }
Why wilt thou rush to certain death, and rage,
In rash attempts, beyond thy tender age,
Betrayed by pious love?——
And afterwards:
He grieved, he wept; the sight an image brought
Of his own filial love; a sadly pleasing thought.
But beside the outlines of the posture, the design of the picture
comprehends, in the next place, the forms of faces, which are to be
different; and so in a poem or a play must the several characters of the
persons be distinguished from each other. I knew a poet, whom out of
respect I will not name, who, being too witty himself, could draw nothing
but wits in a comedy of his; even his fools were infected with the
disease of their author. They overflowed with smart repartees, and were
only distinguished from the intended wits by being called coxcombs,[129]
though they deserved not so scandalous a name. Another, who had a great
genius for tragedy,[130] following the fury of his natural temper, made
every man, and woman too, in his plays, stark raging mad; there was not
a sober person to be had for love or money. All was tempestuous and
blustering; heaven and earth were coming together at every word; a mere
hurricane from the beginning to the end,—and every actor seemed to be
hastening on the day of judgment.[131]
“Let every member be made for its own head,” says our author; not a
withered hand to a young face. So, in the persons of a play, whatsoever
is said or done by any of them, must be consistent with the manners which
the poet has given them distinctly; and even the habits must be proper
to the degrees and humours of the persons, as well as in a picture. He
who entered in the first act a young man, like Pericles, Prince of
Tyre,[132] must not be in danger in the fifth act, of committing incest
with his daughter; nor an usurer, without great probability and causes of
repentance, be turned into a _cutting_ Morecraft.[133]
I am not satisfied, that the comparison betwixt the two arts in the last
paragraph is altogether so just as it might have been; but I am sure of
this which follows:
“The principal figure of the subject must appear in the midst of the
picture, under the principal light, to distinguish it from the rest,
which are only its attendants.” Thus, in a tragedy, or an epic poem, the
hero of the piece must be advanced foremost to the view of the reader,
or spectator: he must outshine the rest of all the characters; he must
appear the prince of them, like the sun in the Copernican system,
encompassed with the less noble planets: because the hero is the centre
of the main action; all the lines from the circumference tend to him
alone: he is the chief object of pity in the drama, and of admiration in
the epic poem.
As in a picture, besides the principal figures which compose it, and are
placed in the midst of it, there are less groups or knots of figures
disposed at proper distances, which are parts of the piece, and seem
to carry on the same design in a more inferior manner; so, in epic
poetry there are episodes, and a chorus in tragedy, which are members
of the action, as growing out of it, not inserted into it. Such in
the ninth book of the “Æneids” is the episode of Nisus and Euryalus.
The adventure belongs to them alone; they alone are the objects of
compassion and admiration; but their business which they carry on, is
the general concernment of the Trojan camp, then beleaguered by Turnus
and the Latins, as the Christians were lately by the Turks. They were to
advertise the chief hero of the distresses of his subjects occasioned by
his absence, to crave his succour, and solicit him to hasten his return.
The Grecian tragedy was at first nothing but a chorus of singers;
afterwards one actor was introduced, which was the poet himself, who
entertained the people with a discourse in verse, betwixt the pauses of
the singing. This succeeding with the people, more actors were added, to
make the variety the greater; and, in process of time, the chorus only
sung betwixt the acts, and the Coryphæus, or chief of them, spoke for the
rest, as an actor concerned in the business of the play.
Thus tragedy was perfected by degrees; and being arrived at that
perfection, the painters might probably take the hint from thence of
adding groups to their pictures. But as a good picture may be without a
group, so a good tragedy may subsist without a chorus, notwithstanding
any reasons which have been given by Dacier to the contrary.
Monsieur Racine has, indeed, used it in his “Esther;” but not that
he found any necessity of it, as the French critic would insinuate.
The chorus at St Cyr was only to give the young ladies an occasion
of entertaining the king with vocal music, and of commending their
own voices. The play itself was never intended for the public stage,
nor, without disparagement to the learned author, could possibly have
succeeded there; and much less the translation of it here. Mr Wycherley,
when we read it together, was of my opinion in this, or rather I of his;
for it becomes me so to speak of so excellent a poet, and so great a
judge. But since I am in this place, as Virgil says, _spatiis exclusus
iniquis_, that is, shortened in my time, I will give no other reason,
than that it is impracticable on our stage. A new theatre, much more
ample and much deeper, must be made for that purpose, besides the cost
of sometimes forty or fifty habits, which is an expence too large to be
supplied by a company of actors. It is true, I should not be sorry to see
a chorus on a theatre more than as large and as deep again as ours, built
and adorned at a king’s charges; and on that condition, and another,
which is, that my hands were not bound behind me, as now they are,[134] I
should not despair of making such a tragedy as might be both instructive
and delightful, according to the manner of the Grecians.
To make a sketch, or a more perfect model of a picture, is, in the
language of poets, to draw up the scenery of a play; and the reason
is the same for both; to guide the undertaking, and to preserve the
remembrance of such things, whose natures are difficult to retain.
To avoid absurdities and incongruities, is the same law established
for both arts. The painter is not to paint a cloud at the bottom of a
picture, but in the uppermost parts; nor the poet to place what is proper
to the end or middle, in the beginning of a poem. I might enlarge on
this; but there are few poets or painters, who can be supposed to sin
so grossly against the laws of nature and of art. I remember only one
play, and for once I will call it by its name, “The Slighted Maid,”[135]
where there is nothing in the first act, but what might have been
said or done in the fifth; nor any thing in the midst, which might not
have been placed as well in the beginning, or the end. To express the
passions which are seated in the heart, by outward signs, is one great
precept of the painters, and very difficult to perform. In poetry, the
same passions and motions of the mind are to be expressed; and in this
consists the principal difficulty, as well as the excellency of that art.
This, says my author, is the gift of Jupiter; and, to speak in the same
heathen language, we call it the gift of our Apollo,—not to be obtained
by pains or study, if we are not born to it; for the motions which are
studied, are never so natural as those which break out in the height of
a real passion. Mr Otway possessed this part as thoroughly as any of
the ancients or moderns. I will not defend every thing in his “Venice
Preserved;” but I must bear this testimony to his memory,—that the
passions are truly touched in it,[136] though perhaps there is somewhat
to be desired, both in the grounds of them, and in the height and
elegance of expression; but nature is there, which is the greatest beauty.
“In the passions,” says our author, “we must have a very great regard
to the quality of the persons, who are actually possessed with them.”
The joy of a monarch for the news of a victory, must not be expressed
like the ecstacy of a Harlequin on the receipt of a letter from his
mistress:—this is so much the same in both the arts, that it is no longer
a comparison. What he says of face-painting, or the portrait of any
one particular person,—concerning the likeness,—is also as applicable
to poetry. In the character of an hero, as well as in an inferior
figure, there is a better or worse likeness to be taken: the better is a
panegyric, if it be not false, and the worse is a libel. Sophocles, says
Aristotle, always drew men as they ought to be, that is, better than they
were; another, whose name I have forgotten,[137] drew them worse than
naturally they were: Euripides altered nothing in the character, but made
them such as they were represented by history, epic poetry, or tradition.
Of the three, the draught of Sophocles is most commended by Aristotle.
I have followed it in that part of “Œdipus” which I writ,[138] though
perhaps I have made him too good a man. But my characters of Antony and
Cleopatra, though they are favourable to them, have nothing of outrageous
panegyric. Their passions were their own, and such as were given them by
history; only the deformities of them were cast into shadows, that they
might be objects of compassion: whereas if I had chosen a noon-day light
for them, somewhat must have been discovered, which would rather have
moved our hatred than our pity.
The Gothic manner, and the barbarous ornaments, which are to be avoided
in a picture, are just the same with those in an ill-ordered play. For
example, our English tragi-comedy must be confessed to be wholly Gothic,
notwithstanding the success which it has found upon our theatre, and
in the “Pastor Fido” of Guarini; even though Corisca and the Satyr
contribute somewhat to the main action. Neither can I defend my “Spanish
Friar,” as fond as otherwise I am of it, from this imputation: for though
the comical parts are diverting, and the serious moving, yet they are of
an unnatural mingle: for mirth and gravity destroy each other, and are no
more to be allowed for decent, than a gay widow laughing in a mourning
habit.
I had almost forgotten one considerable resemblance. Du Fresnoy tells us,
“That the figures of the groups must not be all on a side, that is, with
their face and bodies all turned the same way; but must contrast each
other by their several positions.” Thus in a play, some characters must
be raised, to oppose others, and to set them off the better; according to
the old maxim, _contraria juxta se posita, magis elucescunt_. Thus, in
“The Scornful Lady,” the usurer is set to confront the prodigal: thus, in
my “Tyrannic Love,” the atheist Maximin is opposed to the character of St
Catherine.
I am now come, though with the omission of many likenesses, to the Third
Part of Painting, which is called the Cromatic, or Colouring. Expression,
and all that belongs to words, is that in a poem, which colouring is in
a picture. The colours well chosen in their proper places, together with
the lights and shadows which belong to them, lighten the design, and
make it pleasing to the eye. The words, the expressions, the tropes and
figures, the versification, and all the other elegancies of sound, as
cadences, turns of words upon the thought, and many other things, which
are all parts of expression, perform exactly the same office both in
dramatic and epic poetry. Our author calls Colouring, _lena sororis_;
in plain English, the bawd of her sister, the design or drawing: she
clothes, she dresses her up, she paints her, she makes her appear more
lovely than naturally she is; she _procures_ for the design, and makes
lovers for her: for the design of itself is only so many naked lines.
Thus in poetry, the expression is that which charms the reader, and
beautifies the design, which is only the outlines of the fable. It is
true, the design must of itself be good; if it be vicious, or, in one
word, unpleasing, the cost of colouring is thrown away upon it: it is an
ugly woman in a rich habit set out with jewels;—nothing can become her;
but granting the design to be moderately good, it is like an excellent
complexion with indifferent features: the white and red well mingled on
the face, make what was before but passable, appear beautiful. _Operum
colores_ is the very word which Horace uses, to signify words and elegant
expressions, of which he himself was so great a master, in his Odes.
Amongst the ancients, Zeuxis was most famous for his colouring; amongst
the moderns, Titian and Correggio. Of the two ancient epic poets, who
have so far excelled all the moderns, the invention and design were
the particular talents of Homer. Virgil must yield to him in both; for
the design of the Latin was borrowed from the Grecian: but the _dictio
Virgiliana_, the expression of Virgil, his colouring, was incomparably
the better; and in that I have always endeavoured to copy him. Most of
the pedants, I know, maintain the contrary, and will have Homer excel
even in this part. But of all people, as they are the most ill-mannered,
so they are the worst judges. Even of words, which are their province,
they seldom know more than the grammatical construction, unless they are
born with a poetical genius, which is a rare portion amongst them. Yet
some I know may stand excepted; and such I honour. Virgil is so exact in
every word, that none can be changed but for a worse; nor any one removed
from its place, but the harmony will be altered. He pretends sometimes to
trip; but it is only to make you think him in danger of a fall, when he
is most secure: like a skilful dancer on the ropes, (if you will pardon
the meanness of the similitude,) who slips willingly, and makes a seeming
stumble, that you may think him in great hazard of breaking his neck,
while at the same time he is only giving you a proof of his dexterity. My
late Lord Roscommon was often pleased with this reflection, and with the
examples of it in this admirable author.
I have not leisure to run through the whole comparison of lights and
shadows with tropes and figures; yet I cannot but take notice of
metaphors, which like them have power to lessen or greaten any thing.
Strong and glowing colours are the just resemblances of bold metaphors:
but both must be judiciously applied; for there is a difference betwixt
daring and fool-hardiness. Lucan and Statius often ventured them too
far; our Virgil never. But the great defect of the “Pharsalia” and the
“Thebais” was in the design: if that had been more perfect, we might
have forgiven many of their bold strokes in the colouring, or at least
excused them: yet some of them are such as Demosthenes or Cicero could
not have defended. Virgil, if he could have seen the first verses of the
“Sylvæ,”[139] would have thought Statius mad, in his fustian description
of the statue on the brazen horse. But that poet was always in a foam at
his setting out, even before the motion of the race had warmed him. The
soberness of Virgil, whom he read, it seems, to little purpose, might
have shewn him the difference betwixt
_Arma virumque cano——_
and
_Magnanimum Æacidem, formidatamque tonanti_
_Progeniem._
But Virgil knew how to rise by degrees in his expressions: Statius was in
his towering heights at the first stretch of his pinions. The description
of his running horse, just starting in the Funeral Games for Archemorus,
though the verses are wonderfully fine, are the true image of their
author:
_Stare adeò nescit, pereunt vestigia mille_
_Ante fugam; absentemque ferit gravis ungula campum;_[140]
which would cost me an hour, if I had the leisure to translate them,
there is so much of beauty in the original.
Virgil, as he better knew his colours, so he knew better how and where
to place them. In as much haste as I am, I cannot forbear giving one
example. It is said of him, that he read the Second, Fourth, and Sixth
Books of his Æneids to Augustus Cæsar. In the Sixth, (which we are
sure he read, because we know Octavia was present, who rewarded him
so bountifully for the twenty verses which were made in honour of her
deceased son, Marcellus,)[141]—in this Sixth Book, I say, the poet,
speaking of Misenus, the trumpeter, says,
_——quo non præstantior alter_
_Ære ciere viros,——_
and broke off in the hemistic, or midst of the verse; but in the very
reading, seized as it were with a divine fury, he made up the latter part
of the hemistic with these following words,
_——martemque accendere cantu._
How warm, nay, how glowing a colouring is this! In the beginning of
his verse, the word _æs_, or brass, was taken for a trumpet, because
the instrument was made of that metal,—which of itself was fine; but
in the latter end, which was made extempore, you see three metaphors,
_martemque_,—_accendere_,—_cantu_. Good heavens! how the plain sense is
raised by the beauty of the words! But this was happiness, the former
might be only judgment: this was the _curiosa felicitas_, which Petronius
attributes to Horace; it is the pencil thrown luckily full upon the
horse’s mouth, to express the foam which the painter with all his skill
could not perform without it. These hits of words a true poet often
finds, as I may say, without seeking; but he knows their value when he
finds them, and is infinitely pleased. A bad poet may sometimes light on
them, but he discerns not a diamond from a Bristol-stone; and would have
been of the cock’s mind in Æsop,—a grain of barley would have pleased him
better than the jewel.
The lights and shadows which belong to colouring, put me in mind of that
verse in Horace,
_Hoc amat obscurum, vult hoc sub luce videri._
Some parts of a poem require to be amply written, and with all the force
and elegance of words; others must be cast into shadows, that is, passed
over in silence, or but faintly touched. This belongs wholly to the
judgment of the poet and the painter. The most beautiful parts of the
picture, and the poem, must be the most finished, the colours and words
most chosen; many things in both, which are not deserving of this care,
must be shifted off; content with vulgar expressions, and those very
short, and left, as in a shadow, to the imagination of the reader.
We have the proverb, _manum de tabulâ_, from the painters; which
signifies, to know when to give over, and to lay by the pencil. Both
Homer and Virgil practised this precept wonderfully well, but Virgil
the better of the two. Homer knew, that when Hector was slain, Troy
was as good as already taken; therefore he concludes his action there:
for what follows in the funerals of Patroclus, and the redemption of
Hector’s body, is not, properly speaking, a part of the main action. But
Virgil concludes with the death of Turnus; for after that difficulty was
removed, Æneas might marry, and establish the Trojans, when he pleased.
This rule I had before my eyes in the conclusion of the “Spanish Friar,”
when the discovery was made that the king was living, which was the knot
of the play untied; the rest is shut up in the compass of some few lines,
because nothing then hindered the happiness of Torrismond and Leonora.
The faults of that drama are in the kind of it, which is tragi-comedy.
But it was given to the people: and I never writ any thing for myself but
“Antony and Cleopatra.”
This remark, I must acknowledge, is not so proper for the colouring, as
the design; but it will hold for both. As the words, &c. are evidently
shown to be the cloathing of the thought, in the same sense as colours
are the cloathing of the design, so the painter and the poet ought to
judge exactly, when the colouring and expressions are perfect, and then
to think their work is truly finished. Apelles said of Protogenes,—that
he knew not when to give over. A work may be over-wrought, as well as
under-wrought; too much labour often takes away the spirit by adding to
the polishing, so that there remains nothing but a dull correctness,
a piece without any considerable faults, but with few beauties; for
when the spirits are drawn off, there is nothing but a _caput mortuum_.
Statius never thought an expression could be bold enough; and if a
bolder could be found, he rejected the first. Virgil had judgment enough
to know daring was necessary; but he knew the difference betwixt a
glowing colour and a glaring. As, when he compared the shocking of the
fleets at Actium to the jostling of islands rent from their foundations,
and meeting in the ocean, he knew the comparison was forced beyond
nature, and raised too high; he therefore softens the metaphor with a
_credas_: “you would _almost believe_—that mountains or islands rushed
against each other:”
_——pelago credas innare revulsas_
_Cycladas, aut montes concurrere montibus altos._
But here I must break off without finishing the discourse.
_Cynthius aurem vellit, et admonuit_, &c. The things which are behind
are of too nice a consideration for an essay, begun and ended in twelve
mornings; and perhaps the judges of painting and poetry, when I tell
them how short a time it cost me, may make me the same answer which my
late Lord Rochester made to one, who, to commend a tragedy, said it was
written in three weeks: “How the devil could he be so long about it?” For
that poem was infamously bad; and I doubt this Parallel is little better;
and then the shortness of the time is so far from being a commendation,
that it is scarcely an excuse. But if I have really drawn a portrait
to the knees, or an half-length, with a tolerable likeness, then I may
plead, with some justice, for myself, that the rest is left to the
imagination. Let some better artist provide himself of a deeper canvas,
and, taking these hints which I have given, set the figure on its legs,
and finish it in the invention, design, and colouring.