If we put those great artists in a light of comparison with each other,

Raffaelle had more taste and fancy, Michael Angelo more genius and

imagination. The one excelled in beauty, the other in energy. Michael

Angelo has more of the poetical inspiration; his ideas are vast and

sublime; his people are a superior order of beings; there is nothing

about them, nothing in the air of their actions or their attitudes, or

the style and cast of their very limbs or features, that puts one in mind

of their belonging, to our own species. Raffaelle's imagination is not

so elevated; his figures are not so much disjoined from our own

diminutive race of beings, though his ideas are chaste, noble, and of

great conformity to their subjects. Michael Angelo's works have a

strong, peculiar, and marked character; they seem to proceed from his own

mind entirely, and that mind so rich and abundant, that he never needed,

or seemed to disdain, to look abroad for foreign help. Raffaelle's

materials are generally borrowed, though the noble structure is his own.

The excellency of this extraordinary man lay in the propriety, beauty,

and majesty of his characters, his judicious contrivance of his

composition, correctness of drawing, purity of taste, and the skilful

accommodation of other men's conceptions to his own purpose. Nobody

excelled him in that judgment, with which he united to his own

observations on nature the energy of Michael Angelo, and the beauty and

simplicity of the antique. To the question, therefore, which ought to

hold the first rank, Raffaelle or Michael Angelo, it must be answered,

that if it is to be given to him who possessed a greater combination of

the higher qualities of the art than any other man, there is no doubt but

Raffaelle is the first. But if, according to Longinus, the sublime,

being the highest excellence that human composition can attain to,

abundantly compensates the absence of every other beauty, and atones for

all other deficiencies, then Michael Angelo demands the preference.

These two extraordinary men carried some of the higher excellences of the

art to a greater degree of perfection than probably they ever arrived at

before. They certainly have not been excelled, nor equalled since. Many

of their successors were induced to leave this great road as a beaten

path, endeavouring to surprise and please by something uncommon or new.

When this desire after novelty has proceeded from mere idleness or

caprice, it is not worth the trouble of criticism; but when it has been

in consequence of a busy mind of a peculiar complexion, it is always

striking and interesting, never insipid.

Such is the great style as it appears in those who possessed it at its

height; in this, search after novelty in conception or in treating the

subject has no place.

But there is another style, which, though inferior to the former, has

still great merit, because it shows that those who cultivated it were men

of lively and vigorous imagination. This I call the original or

characteristical style; this, being less referred to any true architype

existing either in general or particular nature, must be supported by the

painter's consistency in the principles he has assumed, and in the union

and harmony of his whole design. The excellency of every style, but I

think of the subordinate ones more especially, will very much depend on

preserving that union and harmony between all the component parts, that

they appear to hang well together, as if the whole proceeded from one

mind. It is in the works of art, as in the characters of men. The

faults or defects of some men seem to become them when they appear to be

the natural growth, and of a piece with the rest of their character. A

faithful picture of a mind, though it be not of the most elevated kind,

though it be irregular, wild, and incorrect, yet if it be marked with

that spirit and firmness which characterises works of genius, will claim

attention, and be more striking than a combination of excellences that do

not seem to hang well together, or we may say than a work that possesses

even all excellences, but those in a moderate degree.

One of the strongest marked characters of this kind, which must be

allowed to be subordinate to the great style, is that of Salvator Rosa.

He gives us a peculiar cast of nature, which, though void of all grace,

elegance, and simplicity; though it has nothing of that elevation and

dignity which belongs to the grand style, yet has that sort of dignity

which belongs to savage and uncultivated nature. But what is most to be

admired in him is the perfect correspondence which he observed between

the subjects which he chose, and his manner of treating them. Everything

is of a piece: his rocks, trees, sky, even to his handling have the same

rude and wild character which animates his figures.

To him we may contrast the character of Carlo Maratti, who, in my own

opinion, had no great vigour of mind or strength of original genius. He

rarely seizes the imagination by exhibiting the higher excellences, nor

does he captivate us by that originality which attends the painter who

thinks for himself. He knew and practised all the rules of art, and from

a composition of Raffaelle, Caracci, and Guido, made up a style, of which

its only fault was, that it had no manifest defects and no striking

beauties, and that the principles of his composition are never blended

together, so as to form one uniform body, original in its kind, or

excellent in any view.

I will mention two other painters who, though entirely dissimilar, yet by

being each consistent with himself, and possessing a manner entirely his

own, have both gained reputation, though for very opposite

accomplishments.

The painters I mean are Rubens and Poussin. Rubens I mention in this

place, as I think him a remarkable instance of the same mind being seen

in all the various parts of the art. The whole is so much of a piece

that one can scarce be brought to believe but that if any one of them had

been more correct and perfect, his works would not be so complete as they

now appear. If we should allow a greater purity and correctness of

drawing, his want of simplicity in composition, colouring, and drapery

would appear more gross.

In his composition his art is too apparent. His figures have expression,

and act with energy, but without simplicity or dignity. His colouring,

in which he is eminently skilled, is, notwithstanding, too much of what

we call tinted. Throughout the whole of his works there is a

proportionable want of that nicety of distinction and elegance of mind

which is required in the higher walks of painting; and to this want it

may be in some degree ascribed that those qualities which make the

excellency of this subordinate style appear in him with their greatest

lustre. Indeed, the facility with which he invented, the richness of his

composition, the luxuriant harmony and brilliancy of his colouring, so

dazzle the eye, that whilst his works continue before us we cannot help

thinking that all his deficiencies are fully supplied.

Opposed to this florid, careless, loose, and inaccurate style, that of

the simple, careful, pure, and correct style of Poussin seems to be a

complete contrast.

Yet however opposite their characters, in one thing they agreed, both of

them having a perfect correspondence between all the parts of their

respective manners.

One is not sure but every alteration of what is considered as defective

in either, would destroy the effect of the whole.

Poussin lived and conversed with the ancient statues so long, that he may

be said to be better acquainted with then than with the people who were

about him. I have often thought that he carried his veneration for them

so far as to wish to give his works the air of ancient paintings. It is

certain he copied some of the antique paintings, particularly the

"Marriage in the Albrobrandini Palace at Rome," which I believe to be the

best relique of those remote ages that has yet been found.

No works of any modern has so much of the air of antique painting as

those of Poussin. His best performances have a remarkable dryness of

manner, which, though by no means to be recommended for imitation, yet

seems perfectly correspondent to that ancient simplicity which

distinguishes his style. Like Polidoro he studied them so much, that he

acquired a habit of thinking in their way, and seemed to know perfectly

the actions and gestures they would use on every occasion.

Poussin in the latter part of his life changed from his dry manner to one

much softer and richer, where there is a greater union between the

figures and the ground, such as the "Seven Sacraments" in the Duke of

Orleans' collection; but neither these, nor any in this manner, are at

all comparable to many in his dry manner which we have in England.

The favourite subjects of Poussin were ancient fables; and no painter was

ever better qualified to paint such subjects, not only from his being

eminently skilled in the knowledge of ceremonies, customs, and habits of

the ancients, but from his being so well acquainted with the different

characters which those who invented them gave their allegorical figures.

Though Rubens has shown great fancy in his Satyrs, Silenuses, and Fauns,

yet they are not that distinct separate class of beings which is

carefully exhibited by the ancients and by Poussin. Certainly when such

subjects of antiquity are represented, nothing in the picture ought to

remind us of modern times. The mind is thrown back into antiquity, and

nothing ought to be introduced that may tend to awaken it from the

illusion.

Poussin seemed to think that the style and the language in which such

stories are told is not the worse for preserving some relish of the old

way of painting which seemed to give a general uniformity to the whole,

so that the mind was thrown back into antiquity not only by the subject,

but the execution.

If Poussin, in imitation of the ancients, represents Apollo driving his

chariot out of the sea by way of representing the sun rising, if he

personifies lakes and rivers, it is no ways offensive in him; but seems

perfectly of a piece with the general air of the picture. On the

contrary, if the figures which people his pictures had a modern air or

countenance, if they appeared like our countrymen, if the draperies were

like cloth or silk of our manufacture, if the landscape had the

appearance of a modern view, how ridiculous would Apollo appear instead

of the sun, an old man or a nymph with an urn instead of a river or lake.

I cannot avoid mentioning here a circumstance in portrait painting which

may help to confirm what has been said.

When a portrait is painted in the historical style, as it is neither an

exact minute representation of an individual nor completely ideal, every

circumstance ought to correspond to this mixture. The simplicity of the

antique air and attitude, however much to be admired, is ridiculous when

joined to a figure in a modern dress. It is not to my purpose to enter

into the question at present, whether this mixed style ought to be

adopted or not; yet if it is chosen it is necessary it should be complete

and all of a piece: the difference of stuffs, for instance, which make

the clothing, should be distinguished in the same degree as the head

deviates from a general idea.

Without this union, which I have so often recommended, a work can have no

marked and determined character, which is the peculiar and constant

evidence of genius. But when this is accomplished to a high degree, it

becomes in some sort a rival to that style which we have fixed as the

highest.

Thus I have given a sketch of the characters of Rubens and Salvator Rosa,

as they appear to me to have the greatest uniformity of mind throughout

their whole work. But we may add to these, all these artists who are at

the head of the class, and have had a school of imitators from Michael

Angelo down to Watteau. Upon the whole it appears that setting aside the

ornamental style, there are two different paths, either of which a

student may take without degrading the dignity of his art. The first is

to combine the higher excellences and embellish them to the greatest

advantage. The other is to carry one of these excellences to the highest

degree. But those who possess neither must be classed with them, who, as

Shakespeare says, are men of no mark or likelihood.

I inculcate as frequently as I can your forming yourselves upon great

principles and great models. Your time will be much misspent in every

other pursuit. Small excellences should be viewed, not studied; they

ought to be viewed, because nothing ought to escape a painter's

observation, but for no other reason.

There is another caution which I wish to give you. Be as select in those

whom you endeavour to please, as in those whom you endeavour to imitate.

Without the love of fame you can never do anything excellent; but by an

excessive and undistinguishing thirst after it, you will come to have

vulgar views; you will degrade your style; and your taste will be

entirely corrupted. It is certain that the lowest style will be the most

popular, as it falls within the compass of ignorance itself; and the

vulgar will always be pleased with what is natural in the confined and

misunderstood sense of the word.

One would wish that such depravation of taste should be counteracted,

with such manly pride as Euripides expressed to the Athenians, who

criticised his works, "I do not compose," says he, "my works in order to

be corrected by you, but to instruct you." It is true, to have a right

to speak thus, a man must be a Euripides. However, thus much may be

allowed, that when an artist is sure that he is upon firm ground,

supported by the authority and practice of his predecessors of the

greatest reputation, he may then assume the boldness and intrepidity of

genius; at any rate, he must not be tempted out of the right path by any

tide of popularity that always accompanies the lower styles of painting.

I mention this, because our exhibitions, that produce such admirable

effects by nourishing emulation, and calling out genius, have also a

mischievous tendency by seducing the painter to an ambition of pleasing

indiscriminately the mixed multitude of people who resort to them.

A DISCOURSE

Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy on the Distribution of the

Prizes, December 10, 1774, by the President.

Gentlemen,--When I have taken the liberty of addressing you on the course

and order of your studies, I never proposed to enter into a minute detail

of the art. This I have always left to the several professors, who

pursue the end of our institution with the highest honour to themselves,

and with the greatest advantage to the students.

My purpose in the discourses I have held in the Academy is to lay down

certain general ideas, which seem to me proper for the formation of a

sound taste; principles necessary to guard the pupils against those

errors into which the sanguine temper common at their time of life, has a

tendency to lead them, and which have rendered abortive the hopes of so

many successions of promising young men in all parts of Europe.

I wish, also, to intercept and suppress those prejudices which

particularly prevail when the mechanism of painting is come to its

perfection, and which when they do prevail are certain to prevail to the

utter destruction of the higher and more valuable parts of this literate

and liberal profession.

These two have been my principal purposes; they are still as much my

concern as ever; and if I repeat my own ideas on the subject, you who

know how fast mistake and prejudice, when neglected, gain ground upon

truth and reason, will easily excuse me. I only attempt to set the same

thing in the greatest variety of lights.

The subject of this discourse will be imitation, as far as a painter is

concerned in it. By imitation I do not mean imitation in its largest

sense, but simply the following of other masters, and the advantage to be

drawn from the study of their works.

Those who have undertaken to write on our art, and have represented it as

a kind of inspiration, as a gift bestowed upon peculiar favourites at

their birth, seem to ensure a much more favourable disposition from their

readers, and have a much more captivating and liberal air, than he who

goes about to examine, coldly, whether there are any means by which this

art may be acquired; how our mind may be strengthened and expanded, and

what guides will show the way to eminence.

It is very natural for those who are unacquainted with the cause of

anything extraordinary to be astonished at the effect, and to consider it

as a kind of magic. They, who have never observed the gradation by which

art is acquired, who see only what is the full result of long labour and

application of an infinite number, and infinite variety of acts, are apt

to conclude from their entire inability to do the same at once, that it

is not only inaccessible to themselves, but can be done by those only who

have some gift of the nature of inspiration bestowed upon them.

The travellers into the East tell us that when the ignorant inhabitants

of these countries are asked concerning the ruins of stately edifices yet

remaining amongst them, the melancholy monuments of their former grandeur

and long-lost science, they always answer that they were built by

magicians. The untaught mind finds a vast gulf between its own powers

and these works of complicated art which it is utterly unable to fathom.

And it supposes that such a void can be passed only by supernatural

powers.

And, as for artists themselves, it is by no means their interest to

undeceive such judges, however conscious they may be of the very natural

means by which the extraordinary powers were acquired; our art being

intrinsically imitative, rejects this idea of inspiration more, perhaps,

than any other.

It is to avoid this plain confession of truth, as it should seem, that

this imitation of masters--indeed, almost all imitation which implies a

more regular and progressive method of attaining the ends of painting--has

ever been particularly inveighed against with great keenness, both by

ancient and modern writers.

To derive all from native power, to owe nothing to another, is the praise

which men, who do not much think what they are saying, bestow sometimes

upon others, and sometimes on themselves; and their imaginary dignity is

naturally heightened by a supercilious censure of the low, the barren,

the grovelling, the servile imitator. It would be no wonder if a

student, frightened by these terrors and disgraceful epithets, with which

the poor imitators are so often loaded, should let fall his pencil in

mere despair, conscious how much he has been indebted to the labours of

others, how little, how very little of his art was born with him; and,

considering it as hopeless, to set about acquiring by the imitation of

any human master what he is taught to suppose is matter of inspiration

from heaven.

Some allowance must be made for what is said in the gaiety or ambition of

rhetoric. We cannot suppose that any one can really mean to exclude all

imitation of others. A position so wild would scarce deserve a serious

answer, for it is apparent, if we were forbid to make use of the

advantages which our predecessors afford us, the art would be always to

begin, and consequently remain always in its infant state; and it is a

common observation that no art was ever invented and carried to

perfection at the same time.

But to bring us entirely to reason and sobriety, let it be observed, that

a painter must not only be of necessity an imitator of the works of

nature, which alone is sufficient to dispel this phantom of inspiration,

but he must be as necessarily an imitator of the works of other painters.

This appears more humiliating, but it is equally true; and no man can be

an artist, whatever he may suppose, upon any other terms.

However, those who appear more moderate and reasonable allow that study

is to begin by imitation, but that we should no longer use the thoughts

of our predecessors when we are become able to think for ourselves. They

hold that imitation is as hurtful to the more advanced student as it was

advantageous to the beginner.

For my own part, I confess I am not only very much disposed to lay down

the absolute necessity of imitation in the first stages of the art, but

am of opinion that the study of other masters, which I here call

imitation, may be extended throughout our whole life without any danger

of the inconveniences with which it is charged, of enfeebling the mind,

or preventing us from giving that original air which every work

undoubtedly ought always to have.

I am, on the contrary, persuaded that by imitation only, variety, and

even originality of invention is produced.

I will go further; even genius, at least what generally is so called, is

the child of imitation. But as this appears to be contrary to the

general opinion, I must explain my position before I enforce it.

Genius is supposed to be a power of producing excellences which are out

of the reach of the rules of art--a power which no precepts can teach,

and which no industry can acquire.

This opinion of the impossibility of acquiring those beauties which stamp

the work with the character of genius, supposes that it is something more

fixed than in reality it is, and that we always do, and ever did agree,

about what should be considered as a characteristic of genius.

But the truth is that the degree of excellence which proclaims genius is

different in different times and different places; and what shows it to

be so is that mankind have often changed their opinion upon this matter.

When the arts were in their infancy, the power of merely drawing the

likeness of any object was considered as one of its greatest efforts.

The common people, ignorant of the principles of art, talk the same

language even to this day. But when it was found that every man could be

taught to do this, and a great deal more, merely by the observance of

certain precepts, the name of genius then shifted its application, and

was given only to those who added the peculiar character of the object

they represented; to those who had invention, expression, grace, or

dignity; or, in short, such qualities or excellences the producing of

which could not then be taught by any known and promulgated rules.

We are very sure that the beauty of form, the expression of the passions,

the art of composition, even the power of giving a general air of

grandeur to your work, is at present very much under the dominion of

rules. These excellences were, heretofore, considered merely as the

effects of genius; and justly, if genius is not taken for inspiration,

but as the effect of close observation and experience.

He who first made any of these observations and digested them, so as to

form an invariable principle for himself to work by, had that merit; but

probably no one went very far at once; and generally the first who gave

the hint did not know how to pursue it steadily and methodically, at

least not in the beginning. He himself worked on it, and improved it;

others worked more, and improved farther, until the secret was

discovered, and the practice made as general as refined practice can be

made. How many more principles may be fixed and ascertained we cannot

tell; but as criticism is likely to go hand in hand with the art which is

its subject, we may venture to say that as that art shall advance, its

powers will be still more and more fixed by rules.

But by whatever strides criticism may gain ground, we need be under no

apprehension that invention will ever be annihilated or subdued, or

intellectual energy be brought entirely within the restraint of written

law. Genius will still have room enough to expatiate, and keep always

the same distance from narrow comprehension and mechanical performance.

What we now call genius begins, not where rules, abstractedly taken, end,

but where known vulgar and trite rules have no longer any place. It must

of necessity be that even works of genius, as well as every other effect,

as it must have its cause, must likewise have its rules; it cannot be by

chance that excellences are produced with any constancy, or any

certainty, for this is not the nature of chance, but the rules by which

men of extraordinary parts, and such as are called men of genius work,

are either such as they discover by their own peculiar observation, or of

such a nice texture as not easily to admit handling or expressing in

words, especially as artists are not very frequently skilful in that mode

of communicating ideas.

Unsubstantial, however, as these rules may seem, and difficult as it may

be to convey them in writing, they are still seen and felt in the mind of

the artist, and he works from them with as much certainty as if they were

embodied, as I may say, upon paper. It is true these refined principles

cannot be always made palpable, like the more gross rules of art; yet it

does not follow but that the mind may be put in such a train that it

shall perceive, by a kind of scientific sense, that propriety which

words, particularly words of unpractised writers such as we are, can but

very feebly suggest.

Invention is one of the great marks of genius, but if we consult

experience, we shall find that it is by being conversant with the

inventions of others that we learn to invent, as by reading the thoughts

of others we learn to think.

Whoever has so far formed his taste as to be able to relish and feel the

beauties of the great masters has gone a great way in his study; for,

merely from a consciousness of this relish of the right, the mind swells

with an inward pride, and is almost as powerfully affected as if it had

itself produced what it admires. Our hearts frequently warmed in this

manner by the contact of those whom we wish to resemble, will undoubtedly

catch something of their way of thinking, and we shall receive in our own

bosoms some radiation at least of their fire and splendour. That

disposition, which is so strong in children, still continues with us, of

catching involuntarily the general air and manner of those with whom we

are most conversant; with this difference only, that a young mind is

naturally pliable and imitative, but in a more advanced state it grows

rigid, and must be warmed and softened before it will receive a deep

impression.

From these considerations, which a little of your reflection will carry a

great way further, it appears of what great consequence it is that our

minds should be habituated to the contemplation of excellence, and that,

far from being contented to make such habits the discipline of our youth

only, we should, to the last moment of our lives, continue a settled

intercourse with all the true examples of grandeur. Their inventions are

not only the food of our infancy, but the substance which supplies the

fullest maturity of our vigour.

The mind is but a barren soil; is a soil soon exhausted, and will produce

no crop, or only one, unless it be continually fertilised and enriched

with foreign matter.

When we have had continually before us the great works of art to

impregnate our minds with kindred ideas, we are then, and not till then,

fit to produce something, of the same species. We behold all about us

with the eyes of these penetrating observers, and our minds, accustomed

to think the thoughts of the noblest and brightest intellects, are

prepared for the discovery and selection of all that is great and noble

in nature. The greatest natural genius cannot subsist on its own stock:

he who resolves never to ransack any mind but his own will be soon

reduced, from mere barrenness, to the poorest of all imitations; he will

be obliged to imitate himself, and to repeat what he has before often

repeated. When we know the subject designed by such men, it will never

be difficult to guess what kind of work is to be produced.

It is vain for painters or poets to endeavour to invent without materials

on which the mind may work, and from which invention must originate.

Nothing can come of nothing.

Homer is supposed to be possessed of all the learning of his time. And

we are certain that Michael Angelo and Raffaelle were equally possessed

of all knowledge in the art which was discoverable in the works of their

predecessors.

A mind enriched by an assemblage of all the treasures of ancient and

modern art will be more elevated and fruitful in resources in proportion

to the number of ideas which have been carefully collected and thoroughly

digested. There can be no doubt that he who has the most materials has

the greatest means of invention; and if he has not the power of using

them, it must proceed from a feebleness of intellect or from the confused

manner in which those collections have been laid up in his mind.

The addition of other men's judgment is so far from weakening, as is the

opinion of many, our own, that it will fashion and consolidate those

ideas of excellence which lay in their birth feeble, ill-shaped, and

confused, but which are finished and put in order by the authority and

practice of those whose works may be said to have been consecrated by

having stood the test of ages.

The mind, or genius, has been compared to a spark of fire which is

smothered by a heap of fuel and prevented from blazing into a flame. This

simile, which is made use of by the younger Pliny, may be easily mistaken

for argument or proof.

There is no danger of the mind's being over-burdened with knowledge, or

the genius extinguished by any addition of images; on the contrary, these

acquisitions may as well, perhaps better, be compared, if comparisons

signified anything in reasoning, to the supply of living embers, which

will contribute to strengthen the spark that without the association of

more would have died away.

The truth is, he whose feebleness is such as to make other men's thoughts

an incumbrance to him can have no very great strength of mind or genius

of his own to be destroyed, so that not much harm will be done at worst.

We may oppose to Pliny the greater authority of Cicero, who is

continually enforcing the necessity of this method of study. In his

dialogue on Oratory he makes Crassus say, that one of the first and most

important precepts is to choose a proper model for our imitation. _Hoc

fit primum in preceptis meis ut demonstremus quem imitemur_.

When I speak of the habitual imitation and continued study of masters, it

is not to be understood that I advise any endeavour to copy the exact

peculiar colour and complexion of another man's mind; the success of such

an attempt must always be like his who imitates exactly the air, manner,

and gestures of him whom he admires. His model may be excellent, but the

copy will be ridiculous; this ridicule does not arise from his having

imitated, but from his not having chosen the right mode of imitation.

It is a necessary and warrantable pride to disdain to walk servilely

behind any individual, however elevated his rank. The true and liberal

ground of imitation is an open field, where, though he who precedes has

had the advantage of starting before you, yet it is enough to pursue his

course; you need not tread in his footsteps, and you certainly have a

right to outstrip him if you can.

Nor, whilst I recommend studying the art from artists, can I be supposed

to mean that nature is to be neglected? I take this study in aid and not

in exclusion of the other. Nature is, and must be, the fountain which

alone is inexhaustible; and from which all excellences must originally

flow.

The great use of studying our predecessors is to open the mind, to

shorten our labour, and to give us the result of the selection made by

those great minds of what is grand or beautiful in nature: her rich

stores are all spread out before us; but it is an art, and no easy art,

to know how or what to choose, and how to attain and secure the object of

our choice.

Thus the highest beauty of form must be taken from nature; but it is an

art of long deduction and great experience to know how to find it.

We must not content ourselves with merely admiring and relishing; we must

enter into the principles on which the work is wrought; these do not swim

on the superficies, and consequently are not open to superficial

observers.

Art in its perfection is not ostentatious; it lies hid, and works its

effect itself unseen. It is the proper study and labour of an artist to

uncover and find out the latent cause of conspicuous beauties, and from

thence form principles for his own conduct; such an examination is a

continual exertion of the mind, as great, perhaps, as that of the artist

whose works he is thus studying.

The sagacious imitator not only remarks what distinguishes the different

manner or genius of each master; he enters into the contrivance in the

composition, how the masses of lights are disposed, the means by which

the effect is produced, how artfully some parts are lost in the ground,

others boldly relieved, and how all these are mutually altered and

interchanged according to the reason and scheme of the work. He admires

not the harmony of colouring alone, but he examines by what artifice one

colour is a foil to its neighbour. He looks close into the tints, of

what colours they are composed, till he has formed clear and distinct

ideas, and has learnt to see in what harmony and good colouring consists.

What is learnt in this manner from the works of others becomes really our

own, sinks deep, and is never forgotten; nay, it is by seizing on this

clue that we proceed forward, and get further and further in enlarging

the principle and improving the practice.

There can be no doubt but the art is better learnt from the works

themselves than from the precepts which are formed upon these works; but

if it is difficult to choose proper models for imitation, it requires no

less circumspection to separate and distinguish what in those models we

ought to imitate.

I cannot avoid mentioning here, though it is not my intention at present

to enter into the art and method of study, an error which students are

too apt to fall into.

He that is forming himself must look with great caution and wariness on

those peculiarities, or prominent parts, which at first force themselves

upon view, and are the marks, or what is commonly called the manner, by

which that individual artist is distinguished.

Peculiar marks I hold to be generally, if not always, defects, however

difficult it may be, wholly to escape them.

Peculiarities in the works of art are like those in the human figure; it

is by them that we are cognisable and distinguished one from another, but

they are always so many blemishes, which, however, both in the one case

and in the other, cease to appear deformities to those who have them

continually before their eyes. In the works of art, even the most

enlightened mind, when warmed by beauties of the highest kind, will by

degrees find a repugnance within him to acknowledge any defects; nay, his

enthusiasm will carry him so far as to transform them into beauties and

objects of imitation.

It must be acknowledged that a peculiarity of style, either from its

novelty, or by seeming to proceed from a peculiar turn of mind, often

escapes blame; on the contrary, it is sometimes striking and pleasing;

but this it is vain labour to endeavour to imitate, because novelty and

peculiarity being its only merit, when it ceases to be new, it ceases to

have value.

A manner, therefore, being a defect, and every painter, however

excellent, having a manner, it seems to follow that all kinds of faults,

as well as beauties, may be learned under the sanction of the greatest

authorities.

Even the great name of Michael Angelo may be used to keep in countenance

a deficiency, or rather neglect of colouring, and every other ornamental

part of the art.

If the young student is dry and hard, Poussin is the same. If his work

has a careless and unfinished air, he has most of the Venetian School to

support him. If he makes no selection of objects, but takes individual

nature just as he finds it, he is like Rembrandt. If he is incorrect in

the proportions of his figures, Correggio was likewise incorrect. If his

colours are not blended and united, Rubens was equally crude.

In short, there is no defect but may be excused, if it is a sufficient

excuse that it can be imputed to considerable artists; but it must be

remembered that it was not by these defects they acquired their

reputation: they have a right to our pardon, but not to our admiration.

However, to imitate peculiarities or mistake defects for beauties that

man will be most liable who confines his imitation to one favourite

master; and, even though he chooses the best, and is capable of

distinguishing the real excellences of his model, it is not by such

narrow practice that a genius or mastery in the art is acquired. A man

is as little likely to form a true idea of the perfection of the art by

studying a single artist as he would be of producing a perfectly

beautiful figure by an exact imitation of any individual living model.

And as the painter, by bringing together in one piece those beauties

which are dispersed amongst a great variety of individuals, produces a

figure more beautiful than can be found in nature, so that artist who can

unite in himself the excellences of the various painters, will approach

nearer to perfection than any one of his masters.

He who confines himself to the imitation of an individual, as he never

proposes to surpass, so he is not likely to equal, the object of

imitation. He professes only to follow, and he that follows must

necessarily be behind.

We should imitate the conduct of the great artists in the course of their

studies, as well as the works which they produced, when they were

perfectly formed. Raffaelle began by imitating implicitly the manner of

Pietro Perugino, under whom he studied; so his first works are scarce to

be distinguished from his master's; but soon forming higher and more

extensive views, he imitated the grand outline of Michael Angelo. He

learnt the manner of using colours from the works of Leonardo da Vinci

and Fratre Bartolomeo: to all this he added the contemplation of all the

remains of antiquity that were within his reach, and employed others to

draw for him what was in Greece and distant places. And it is from his

having taken so many models that he became himself a model for all

succeeding painters, always imitating, and always original.

If your ambition therefore be to equal Raffaelle, you must do as

Raffaelle did; take many models, and not take even him for your guide

alone to the exclusion of others. And yet the number is infinite of

those who seem, if one may judge by their style, to have seen no other

works but those of their master, or of some favourite whose manner is

their first wish and their last.

I will mention a few that occur to me of this narrow, confined,

illiberal, unscientific, and servile kind of imitators. Guido was thus

meanly copied by Elizabetta Sirani, and Simone Cantarini; Poussin, by

Verdier and Cheron; Parmigiano, by Jeronimo Mazzuoli; Paolo Veronese and

Iacomo Bassan had for their imitators their brothers and sons; Pietro de

Cortona was followed by Ciro Ferri and Romanelli; Rubens, by Jacques

Jordans and Diepenbeck; Guercino, by his own family, the Gennari; Carlo

Marratti was imitated by Giuseppe Chiari and Pietro da Pietri; and

Rembrandt, by Bramer, Eckhout, and Flink. All these, to whom may be

added a much longer list of painters, whose works among the ignorant pass

for those of their masters, are justly to be censured for barrenness and

servility.

To oppose to this list a few that have adopted a more liberal style of

imitation: Pelegrino Tibaldi, Rosso, and Primaticio did not coldly

imitate, but caught something of the fire that animates the works of

Michael Angelo. The Carraches formed their style from Pelegrino Tibaldi,

Correggio, and the Venetian School. Domenichino, Guido, Lanfranco,

Albano, Guercino, Cavidone, Schidone, Tiarini, though it is sufficiently

apparent that they came from the School of the Carraches, have yet the

appearance of men who extended their views beyond the model that lay

before them, and have shown that they had opinions of their own, and

thought for themselves, after they had made themselves masters of the

general principles of their schools.

Le Seure's first manner resembles very much that of his master Vovet: but

as he soon excelled him, so he differed from him in every part of the

art. Carlo Marratti succeeded better than those I have first named, and

I think owes his superiority to the extension of his views; besides his

master Andrea Sacchi, he imitated Raffaelle, Guido, and the Carraches. It

is true, there is nothing very captivating in Carlo Marratti; but this

proceeded from wants which cannot be completely supplied; that is, want

of strength of parts. In this, certainly men are not equal, and a man

can bring home wares only in proportion to the capital with which he goes

to market. Carlo, by diligence, made the most of what he had; but there

was undoubtedly a heaviness about him, which extended itself, uniformly

to his invention, expression, his drawing, colouring, and the general

effect of his pictures. The truth is, he never equalled any of his

patterns in any one thing, and he added little of his own.

But we must not rest contented, even in this general study of the

moderns; we must trace back the art to its fountain head, to that source

from whence they drew their principal excellences, the monuments of pure

antiquity.

All the inventions and thoughts of the ancients, whether conveyed to us

in statues, bas-reliefs, intaglios, cameos, or coins, are to be sought

after and carefully studied: The genius that hovers over these venerable

relics may be called the father of modern art.

From the remains of the works of the ancients the modern arts were

revived, and it is by their means that they must be restored a second

time. However it may mortify our vanity, we must be forced to allow them

our masters; and we may venture to prophecy, that when they shall cease

to be studied, arts will no longer flourish, and we shall again relapse

into barbarism.

The fire of the artist's own genius operating upon these materials which

have been thus diligently collected, will enable him to make new

combinations, perhaps, superior to what had ever before been in the

possession of the art. As in the mixture of the variety of metals, which

are said to have been melted and run together at the burning of Corinth,

a new and till then unknown metal was produced equal in value to any of

those that had contributed to its composition. And though a curious

refiner may come with his crucibles, analyse and separate its various

component parts, yet Corinthian brass would still hold its rank amongst

the most beautiful and valuable of metals.

We have hitherto considered the advantages of imitation as it tends to

form the taste, and as a practice by which a spark of that genius may be

caught which illumines these noble works, that ought always to be present

to our thoughts.

We come now to speak of another kind of imitation; the borrowing a

particular thought, an action, attitude, or figure, and transplanting it

into your own work: this will either come under the charge of plagiarism,

or be warrantable, and deserve commendation, according to the address

with which it is performed. There is some difference likewise whether it

is upon the ancients or the moderns that these depredations are made. It

is generally allowed that no man need be ashamed of copying the ancients:

their works are considered as a magazine of common property, always open

to the public, whence every man has a right to what materials he pleases;

and if he has the art of using them, they are supposed to become to all

intents and purposes his own property.

The collection which Raffaelle made of the thoughts of the ancients with

so much trouble, is a proof of his opinion on this subject. Such

collections may be made with much more ease, by means of an art scarce

known in his time; I mean that of engraving, by which, at an easy rate,

every man may now avail himself of the inventions of antiquity.

It must be acknowledged that the works of the moderns are more the

property of their authors; he who borrows an idea from an artist, or

perhaps from a modern, not his contemporary, and so accommodates it to

his own work that it makes a part of it, with no seam or joining

appearing, can hardly be charged with plagiarism; poets practise this

kind of borrowing without reserve. But an artist should not be contented

with this only; he should enter into a competition with his original, and

endeavour to improve what he is appropriating to his own work. Such

imitation is so far from having anything in it of the servility of

plagiarism, that it is a perpetual exercise of the mind, a continual

invention.

Borrowing or stealing with such art and caution will have a right to the

same lenity as was used by the Lacedemonians; who did not punish theft,

but the want of artifice to conceal it.

In order to encourage you to imitation, to the utmost extent, let me add,

that very finished artists in the inferior branches of the art will

contribute to furnish the mind and give hints of which a skilful painter,

who is sensible of what he wants, and is in no danger of being infected

by the contact of vicious models, will know how to avail himself. He

will pick up from dunghills what by a nice chemistry, passing through his

own mind, shall be converted into pure gold; and, under the rudeness of

Gothic essays, he will find original, rational, and even sublime

inventions.

In the luxuriant style of Paul Veronese, in the capricious compositions

of Tintoret, he will find something that will assist his invention, and

give points, from which his own imagination shall rise and take flight,

when the subject which he treats will, with propriety, admit of splendid

effects.

In every school, whether Venetian, French, or Dutch, he will find either

ingenious compositions, extraordinary effects, some peculiar expressions,

or some mechanical excellence, well worthy his attention and, in some

measure, of his imitation; even in the lower class of the French

painters, great beauties are often found united with great defects.

Though Coypel wanted a simplicity of taste, and mistook a presumptuous

and assuming air for what is grand and majestic; yet he frequently has

good sense and judgment in his manner of telling his stories, great skill

in his compositions, and is not without a considerable power of

expressing the passions, The modern affectation of grace in his works, as

well as in those of Bouche and Watteau, may be said to be separated by a

very thin partition from the more simple and pure grace of Correggio and

Parmigiano.

Amongst the Dutch painters, the correct, firm, and determined pencil,

which was employed by Bamboccio and Jan Miel on vulgar and mean subjects,

might without any change be employed on the highest, to which, indeed, it

seems more properly to belong. The greatest style, if that style is

confined to small figures such as Poussin generally painted, would

receive an additional grace by the elegance and precision of pencil so

admirable in the works of Teniers.

Though this school more particularly excelled in the mechanism of

painting, yet there are many who have shown great abilities in expressing

what must be ranked above mechanical excellences.

In the works of Frank Hals the portrait painter may observe the

composition of a face, the features well put together as the painters

express it, from whence proceeds that strong marked character of

individual nature which is so remarkable in his portraits, and is not to

be found in an equal degree in any other painter. If he had joined to

this most difficult part of the art a patience in finishing what he had

so correctly planned, he might justly have claimed the place which

Vandyke, all things considered, so justly holds as the first of portrait

painters.

Others of the same school have shown great power in expressing the

character and passions of those vulgar people which are the subjects of

their study and attention. Amongst those, Jean Stein seems to be one of

the most diligent and accurate observers of what passed in those scenes

which he frequented, and which were to him an academy. I can easily

imagine that if this extraordinary man had had the good fortune to have

been born in Italy instead of Holland, had he lived in Rome instead of

Leyden, and had been blessed with Michael Angelo and Raffaelle for his

masters instead of Brower and Van Gowen, that the same sagacity and

penetration which distinguished so accurately the different characters

and expression in his vulgar figures, would, when exerted in the

selection and imitation of what was great and elevated in nature, have

been equally successful, and his name would have been now ranged with the

great pillars and supporters of our art.

Men who, although thus bound down by the almost invincible powers of

early habits, have still exerted extraordinary abilities within their

narrow and confined circle, and have, from the natural vigour of their

mind, given such an interesting expression, such force and energy to

their works, though they cannot be recommended to be exactly imitated,

may yet invite an artist to endeavour to transfer, by a kind of parody,

those excellences to his own works. Whoever has acquired the power of

making this use of the Flemish, Venetian, and French schools is a real

genius, and has sources of knowledge open to him which were wanting to

the great artists who lived in the great age of painting.

To find excellences however dispersed, to discover beauties however

concealed by the multitude of defects with which they are surrounded, can

be the work only of him who, having a mind always alive to his art, has

extended his views to all ages and to all schools, and has acquired from

that comprehensive mass which he has thus gathered to himself, a well

digested and perfect idea of his art, to which everything is referred.

Like a sovereign judge and arbiter of art, he is possessed of that

presiding power which separates and attracts every excellence from every

school, selects both from what is great and what is little, brings home

knowledge from the east and from the west, making the universe tributary

towards furnishing his mind and enriching his works with originality and

variety of inventions.

Thus I have ventured to give my opinion of what appears to me the true

and only method by which an artist makes himself master of his

profession, which I hold ought to be one continued course of imitation,

that is not to cease but with our lives.

Those who, either from their own engagements and hurry of business, or

from indolence, or from conceit and vanity, have neglected looking out of

themselves, as far as my experience and observation reaches, have from

that time not only ceased to advance and improve in their performance,

but have gone backward. They may be compared to men who have lived upon

their principal till they are reduced to beggary and left without

resources.

I can recommend nothing better, therefore, than that you endeavour to

infuse into your works what you learn from the contemplation of the works

of others. To recommend this has the appearance of needless and

superfluous advice, but it has fallen within my own knowledge that

artists, though they are not wanting in a sincere love for their art,

though they have great pleasure in seeing good pictures, and are well

skilled to distinguish what is excellent or defective in them, yet go on

in their own manner, without any endeavour to give a little of those

beauties which they admire in others, to their own works. It is

difficult to conceive how the present Italian painters, who live in the

midst of the treasures of art, should be contented with their own style.

They proceed in their common-place inventions, and never think it worth

while to visit the works of those great artists with which they are

surrounded.

I remember several years ago to have conversed at Rome with an artist of

great fame throughout Europe; he was not without a considerable degree of

abilities, but those abilities were by no means equal to his own opinion

of them. From the reputation he had acquired he too fondly concluded

that he stood in the same rank, when compared to his predecessors, as he

held with regard to his miserable contemporary rivals.

In conversation about some particulars of the works of Raffaelle, he

seemed to have, or to affect to have, a very obscure memory of them. He

told me that he had not set his foot in the Vatican for fifteen years

together; that indeed he had been in treaty to copy a capital picture of

Raffaelle, but that the business had gone off; however, if the agreement

had held, his copy would have greatly exceeded the original. The merit

of this artist, however great we may suppose it, I am sure would have

been far greater, and his presumption would have been far less if he had

visited the Vatican, as in reason he ought to have done, once at least

every month of his life.

I address myself, gentlemen, to you who have made some progress in the

art, and are to be for the future under the guidance of your own judgment

and discretion.

I consider you as arrived to that period when you have a right to think

for yourselves, and to presume that every man is fallible; to study the

masters with a suspicion that great men are not always exempt from great

faults; to criticise, compare, and rank their works in your own

estimation, as they approach to or recede from that standard of

perfection which you have formed in your own mind, but which those

masters themselves, it must be remembered, have taught you to make, and

which you will cease to make with correctness when you cease to study

them. It is their excellences which have taught you their defects.

I would wish you to forget where you are, and who it is that speaks to

you. I only direct you to higher models and better advisers. We can

teach you here but very little; you are henceforth to be your own

teachers. Do this justice, however, to the English Academy, to bear in

mind, that in this place you contracted no narrow habits, no false ideas,

nothing that could lead you to the imitation of any living master, who

may be the fashionable darling of the day. As you have not been taught

to flatter us, do not learn to flatter yourselves. We have endeavoured

to lead you to the admiration of nothing but what is truly admirable. If

you choose inferior patterns, or if you make your own _former_ works,

your patterns for your _latter_, it is your own fault.

The purpose of this discourse, and, indeed, of most of my others, is to

caution you against that false opinion, but too prevalent amongst

artists, of the imaginary power of native genius, and its sufficiency in

great works. This opinion, according to the temper of mind it meets

with, almost always produces, either a vain confidence, or a sluggish

despair, both equally fatal to all proficiency.

Study, therefore, the great works of the great masters for ever. Study

as nearly as you can, in the order, in the manner, on the principles, on

which they studied. Study nature attentively, but always with those

masters in your company; consider them as models which you are to

imitate, and at the same time as rivals which you are to combat.

A DISCOURSE

Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy on the Distribution of the

Prizes, December 10th, 1776, by the President.

Gentlemen,--It has been my uniform endeavour, since I first addressed you

from this place, to impress you strongly with one ruling idea. I wished

you to be persuaded, that success in your art depends almost entirely on

your own industry; but the industry which I principally recommended, is

not the industry of the _hands_, but of the _mind_.

As our art is not a divine gift, so neither is it a mechanical trade. Its

foundations are laid in solid science. And practice, though essential to

perfection, can never attain that to which it aims, unless it works under

the direction of principle.

Some writers upon art carry this point too far, and suppose that such a

body of universal and profound learning is requisite, that the very

enumeration of its kind is enough to frighten a beginner. Vitruvius,

after going through the many accomplishments of nature, and the many

acquirements of learning, necessary to an architect, proceeds with great

gravity to assert that he ought to be well skilled in the civil law, that

he may not be cheated in the title of the ground he builds on.

But without such exaggeration, we may go so far as to assert, that a

painter stands in need of more knowledge than is to be picked off his

pallet, or collected by looking on his model, whether it be in life or in

picture. He can never be a great artist who is grossly illiterate.

Every man whose business is description ought to be tolerably conversant

with the poets in some language or other, that he may imbibe a poetical

spirit and enlarge his stock of ideas. He ought to acquire a habit of

comparing and divesting his notions. He ought not to be wholly

unacquainted with that part of philosophy which gives him an insight into

human nature, and relates to the manners, characters, passions, and

affections. He ought to know something concerning the mind, as well as a

great deal concerning the body of man.

For this purpose, it is not necessary that he should go into such a

compass of reading, as must, by distracting his attention, disqualify him

for the practical part of his profession, and make him sink the performer

in the critic. Reading, if it can be made the favourite recreation of

his leisure hours, will improve and enlarge his mind without retarding

his actual industry.

What such partial and desultory reading cannot afford, may be supplied by

the conversation of learned and ingenious men, which is the best of all

substitutes for those who have not the means or opportunities of deep

study. There are many such men in this age; and they will be pleased

with communicating their ideas to artists, when they see them curious and

docile, if they are treated with that respect and deference which is so

justly their due. Into such society, young artists, if they make it the

point of their ambition, will by degrees be admitted. There, without

formal teaching, they will insensibly come to feel and reason like those

they live with, and find a rational and systematic taste imperceptibly

formed in their minds, which they will know how to reduce to a standard,

by applying general truth to their own purposes, better perhaps than

those to whom they owed the original sentiment.

Of these studies and this conversation, the desired and legitimate

offspring is a power of distinguishing right from wrong, which power

applied to works of art is denominated taste. Let me then, without

further introduction, enter upon an examination whether taste be so far

beyond our reach as to be unattainable by care, or be so very vague and

capricious that no care ought to be employed about it.

It has been the fate of arts to be enveloped in mysterious and

incomprehensible language, as if it was thought necessary that even the

terms should correspond to the idea entertained of the instability and

uncertainty of the rules which they expressed.

To speak of genius and taste as any way connected with reason or common

sense, would be, in the opinion of some towering talkers, to speak like a

man who possessed neither, who had never felt that enthusiasm, or, to use

their own inflated language, was never warmed by that Promethean fire,

which animates the canvas and vivifies the marble.

If, in order to be intelligible, I appear to degrade art by bringing her

down from her visionary situation in the clouds, it is only to give her a

more solid mansion upon the earth. It is necessary that at some time or

other we should see things as they really are, and not impose on

ourselves by that false magnitude with which objects appear when viewed

indistinctly as through a mist.

We will allow a poet to express his meaning, when his meaning is not well

known to himself, with a certain degree of obscurity, as it is one source

of the sublime. But when, in plain prose, we gravely talk of courting

the muse in shady bowers, waiting the call and inspiration of genius,

finding out where he inhabits, and where he is to be invoked with the

greatest success; of attending to times and seasons when the imagination

shoots with the greatest vigour, whether at the summer solstice or the

equinox, sagaciously observing how much the wild freedom and liberty of

imagination is cramped by attention to established rules, and how this

same imagination begins to grow dim in advanced age, smothered and

deadened by too much judgment. When we talk such language, or entertain

such sentiments as these, we generally rest contented with mere words, or

at best entertain notions not only groundless, but pernicious.

If all this means what it is very possible was originally intended only

to be meant, that in order to cultivate an art, a man secludes himself

from the commerce of the world, and retires into the country at

particular seasons; or that at one time of the year his body is in better

health, and consequently his mind fitter for the business of hard

thinking than at another time; or that the mind may be fatigued and grow

confused by long and unremitted application; this I can understand. I

can likewise believe that a man eminent when young for possessing

poetical imagination, may, from having taken another road, so neglect its

cultivation as to show less of its powers in his latter life. But I am

persuaded that scarce a poet is to be found, from Homer down to Dryden,

who preserved a sound mind in a sound body, and continued practising his

profession to the very last, whose later works are not as replete with

the fire of imagination as those which were produced in his more youthful

days.

To understand literally these metaphors or ideas expressed in poetical

language, seems to be equally absurd as to conclude that because painters

sometimes represent poets writing from the dictates of a little winged

boy or genius, that this same genius did really inform him in a whisper

what he was to write, and that he is himself but a mere machine,

unconscious of the operations of his own mind.

Opinions generally received and floating in the world, whether true or

false, we naturally adopt and make our own; they may be considered as a

kind of inheritance to which we succeed and are tenants for life, and

which we leave to our posterity very near in the condition in which we

received it; not much being in any one man's power either to impair or

improve it.

The greatest part of these opinions, like current coin in its

circulation, we are obliged to take without weighing or examining; but by

this inevitable inattention, many adulterated pieces are received, which,

when we seriously estimate our wealth, we must throw away. So the

collector of popular opinions, when he embodies his knowledge, and forms

a system, must separate those which are true from those which are only

plausible. But it becomes more peculiarly a duty to the professors of

art not to let any opinions relating to that art pass unexamined. The

caution and circumspection required in such examination we shall

presently have an opportunity of explaining.

Genius and taste, in their common acceptation, appear to be very nearly

related; the difference lies only in this, that genius has superadded to

it a habit or power of execution. Or we may say, that taste, when this

power is added, changes its name, and is called genius. They both, in

the popular opinion, pretend to an entire exemption from the restraint of

rules. It is supposed that their powers are intuitive; that under the

name of genius great works are produced, and under the name of taste an

exact judgment is given, without our knowing why, and without being under

the least obligation to reason, precept, or experience.

One can scarce state these opinions without exposing their absurdity, yet

they are constantly in the mouths of men, and particularly of artists.

They who have thought seriously on this subject, do not carry the point

so far; yet I am persuaded, that even among those few who may be called

thinkers, the prevalent opinion gives less than it ought to the powers of

reason; and considers the principles of taste, which give all their

authority to the rules of art, as more fluctuating, and as having less

solid foundations than we shall find, upon examination, they really have.

The common saying, that tastes are not to be disputed, owes its

influence, and its general reception, to the same error which leads us to

imagine it of too high original to submit to the authority of an earthly

tribunal. It will likewise correspond with the notions of those who

consider it as a mere phantom of the imagination, so devoid of substance

as to elude all criticism.

We often appear to differ in sentiments from each other, merely from the

inaccuracy of terms, as we are not obliged to speak always with critical

exactness. Something of this too may arise from want of words in the

language to express the more nice discriminations which a deep

investigation discovers. A great deal, however, of this difference

vanishes when each opinion is tolerably explained and understood by

constancy and precision in the use of terms.

We apply the term taste to that act of the mind by which we like or

dislike, whatever be the subject. Our judgment upon an airy nothing, a

fancy which has no foundation, is called by the same name which we give

to our determination concerning those truths which refer to the most

general and most unalterable principles of human nature, to works which

are only to be produced by the greatest efforts of the human

understanding. However inconvenient this may be, we are obliged to take

words as we find them; all we can do is to distinguish the things to

which they are applied.

We may let pass those things which are at once subjects of taste and

sense, and which having as much certainty as the senses themselves, give

no occasion to inquiry or dispute. The natural appetite or taste of the

human mind is for truth; whether that truth results from the real

agreement or equality of original ideas among themselves; from the

agreement of the representation of any object with the thing represented;

or from the correspondence of the several parts of any arrangement with

each other. It is the very same taste which relishes a demonstration in

geometry, that is pleased with the resemblance of a picture to an

original, and touched with the harmony of music.

All these have unalterable and fixed foundations in nature, and are

therefore equally investigated by reason, and known by study; some with

more, some with less clearness, but all exactly in the same way. A

picture that is unlike, is false. Disproportionate ordinance of parts is

not right because it cannot be true until it ceases to be a contradiction

to assert that the parts have no relation to the whole. Colouring is

true where it is naturally adapted to the eye, from brightness, from

softness, from harmony, from resemblance; because these agree with their

object, nature, and therefore are true: as true as mathematical

demonstration; but known to be true only to those who study these things.

But besides real, there is also apparent truth, or opinion, or prejudice.

With regard to real truth, when it is known, the taste which conforms to

it is, and must be, uniform. With regard to the second sort of truth,

which may be called truth upon sufferance, or truth by courtesy, it is

not fixed, but variable. However, whilst these opinions and prejudices

on which it is founded continue, they operate as truth; and the art,

whose office it is to please the mind, as well as instruct it, must

direct itself according to opinion, or it will not attain its end.

In proportion as these prejudices are known to be generally diffused, or

long received, the taste which conforms to them approaches nearer to

certainty, and to a sort of resemblance to real science, even where

opinions are found to be no better than prejudices. And since they

deserve, on account of their duration and extent, to be considered as

really true, they become capable of no small decree of stability and

determination by their permanent and uniform nature.

As these prejudices become more narrow, more local, more transitory, this

secondary taste becomes more and more fantastical; recedes from real

science; is less to be approved by reason, and less followed in practice;

though in no case perhaps to be wholly neglected, where it does not

stand, as it sometimes does, in direct defiance of the most respectable

opinions received amongst mankind.

Having laid down these positions, I shall proceed with less method,

because less will serve, to explain and apply them.

We will take it for granted that reason is something invariable and fixed

in the nature of things; and without endeavouring to go back to an

account of first principles, which for ever will elude our search, we

will conclude that whatever goes under the name of taste, which we can

fairly bring under the dominion of reason, must be considered as equally

exempt from change. If therefore, in the course of this inquiry, we can

show that there are rules for the conduct of the artist which are fixed

and invariable, it implies, of course, that the art of the connoisseur,

or, in other words, taste, has likewise invariable principles.

Of the judgment which we make on the works of art, and the preference

that we give to one class of art over another, if a reason be demanded,

the question is perhaps evaded by answering, "I judge from my taste"; but

it does not follow that a better answer cannot be given, though for

common gazers this may be sufficient. Every man is not obliged to

investigate the causes of his approbation or dislike.

The arts would lie open for ever to caprice and casualty, if those who

are to judge of their excellences had no settled principles by which they

are to regulate their decisions, and the merit or defect of performances

were to be determined by unguided fancy. And indeed we may venture to

assert that whatever speculative knowledge is necessary to the artist, is

equally and indispensably necessary to the connoisseur.

The first idea that occurs in the consideration of what is fixed in art,

or in taste, is that presiding principle of which I have so frequently

spoken in former discourses, the general idea of nature. The beginning,

the middle, and the end of everything that is valuable in taste, is

comprised in the knowledge of what is truly nature; for whatever ideas

are not conformable to those of nature, or universal opinion, must be

considered as more or less capricious.

The idea of nature comprehending not only the forms which nature

produces, but also the nature and internal fabric and organisation, as I

may call it, of the human mind and imagination: general ideas, beauty, or

nature, are but different ways of expressing the same thing, whether we

apply these terms to statues, poetry, or picture. Deformity is not

nature, but an accidental deviation from her accustomed practice. This

general idea therefore ought to be called nature, and nothing else,

correctly speaking, has a right to that name. But we are so far from

speaking, in common conversation, with any such accuracy, that, on the

contrary, when we criticise Rembrandt and other Dutch painters, who

introduced into their historical pictures exact representations of

individual objects with all their imperfections, we say, though it is not

in a good taste, yet it is nature.

This misapplication of terms must be very often perplexing to the young

student. Is not, he may say, art an imitation of nature? Must he not,

therefore, who imitates her with the greatest fidelity be the best

artist? By this mode of reasoning Rembrandt has a higher place than

Raffaelle. But a very little reflection will serve to show us that these

particularities cannot be nature: for how can that be the nature of man,

in which no two individuals are the same?

It plainly appears that as a work is conducted under the influence of

general ideas or partial it is principally to be considered as the effect

of a good or a bad taste.

As beauty therefore does not consist in taking what lies immediately

before you, so neither, in our pursuit of taste, are those opinions which

we first received and adopted the best choice, or the most natural to the

mind and imagination.

In the infancy of our knowledge we seize with greediness the good that is

within our reach; it is by after-consideration, and in consequence of

discipline, that we refuse the present for a greater good at a distance.

The nobility or elevation of all arts, like the excellence of virtue

itself, consists in adopting this enlarged and comprehensive idea, and

all criticism built upon the more confined view of what is natural, may

properly be called shallow criticism, rather than false; its defect is

that the truth is not sufficiently extensive.

It has sometimes happened that some of the greatest men in our art have

been betrayed into errors by this confined mode of reasoning. Poussin,

who, upon the whole, may be produced as an instance of attention to the

most enlarged and extensive ideas of nature, from not having settled

principles on this point, has in one instance at least, I think, deserted

truth for prejudice. He is said to have vindicated the conduct of Julio

Romano, for his inattention to the masses of light and shade, or grouping

the figures, in the battle of Constantine, as if designedly neglected,

the better to correspond with the hurry and confusion of a battle.

Poussin's own conduct in his representations of Bacchanalian triumphs and

sacrifices, makes us more easily give credit to this report, since in

such subjects, as well indeed as in many others, it was too much his own

practice. The best apology we can make for this conduct is what proceeds

from the association of our ideas, the prejudice we have in favour of

antiquity. Poussin's works, as I have formerly observed, have very much

the air of the ancient manner of painting, in which there are not the

least traces to make us think that what we call the keeping, the

composition of light and shade, or distribution of the work into masses,

claimed any part of their attention. But surely whatever apology we may

find out for this neglect, it ought to be ranked among the defects of

Poussin, as well as of the antique paintings; and the moderns have a

right to that praise which is their due, for having given so pleasing an

addition to the splendour of the art.

Perhaps no apology ought to be received for offences committed against

the vehicle (whether it be the organ of seeing or of hearing) by which

our pleasures are conveyed to the mind. We must take the same care that

the eye be not perplexed and distracted by a confusion of equal parts, or

equal lights, as of offending it by an unharmonious mixture of colours.

We may venture to be more confident of the truth of this observation,

since we find that Shakespeare, on a parallel occasion, has made Hamlet

recommend to the players a precept of the same kind, never to offend the

ear by harsh sounds:--"In the very torrent, tempest, and whirlwind of

your passions," says he, "you must beget a temperance that may give it

smoothness." And yet, at the same time, he very justly observes, "The

end of playing, both at the first and now, is to hold, as it were, the

mirror up to nature." No one can deny but that violent passions will

naturally emit harsh and disagreeable tones; yet this great poet and

critic thought that this imitation of nature would cost too much, if

purchased at the expense of disagreeable sensations, or, as he expresses

it, of "splitting the ear." The poet and actor, as well as the painter

of genius who is well acquainted with all the variety and sources of

pleasure in the mind and imagination, has little regard or attention to

common nature, or creeping after common sense. By overleaping those

narrow bounds, he more effectually seizes the whole mind, and more

powerfully accomplishes his purpose. This success is ignorantly imagined

to proceed from inattention to all rules, and in defiance of reason and

judgment; whereas it is in truth acting according to the best rules, and

the justest reason.

He who thinks nature, in the narrow sense of the word, is alone to be

followed, will produce but a scanty entertainment for the imagination:

everything is to be done with which it is natural for the mind to be

pleased, whether it proceeds from simplicity or variety, uniformity or

irregularity: whether the scenes are familiar or exotic; rude and wild,

or enriched and cultivated; for it is natural for the mind to be pleased

with all these in their turn. In short, whatever pleases has in it what

is analogous to the mind, and is therefore, in the highest and best sense

of the word, natural.

It is this sense of nature or truth which ought more particularly to be

cultivated by the professors of art; and it may be observed that many

wise and learned men, who have accustomed their minds to admit nothing

for truth but what can be proved by mathematical demonstration, have

seldom any relish for those arts which address themselves to the fancy,

the rectitude and truth of which is known by another kind of proof: and

we may add that the acquisition of this knowledge requires as much

circumspection and sagacity, as to attain those truths which are more

open to demonstration. Reason must ultimately determine our choice on

every occasion; but this reason may still be exerted ineffectually by

applying to taste principles which, though right as far as they go, yet

do not reach the object. No man, for instance, can deny that it seems at

first view very reasonable, that a statue which is to carry down to

posterity the resemblance of an individual should be dressed in the

fashion of the times, in the dress which he himself wore: this would

certainly be true if the dress were part of the man. But after a time

the dress is only an amusement for an antiquarian; and if it obstructs

the general design of the piece, it is to be disregarded by the artist.

Common sense must here give way to a higher sense.

In the naked form, and in the disposition of the drapery, the difference

between one artist and another is principally seen. But if he is

compelled to the modern dress, the naked form is entirely hid, and the

drapery is already disposed by the skill of the tailor. Were a Phidias

to obey such absurd commands, he would please no more than an ordinary

sculptor; since, in the inferior parts of every art, the learned and the

ignorant are nearly upon a level.

These were probably among the reasons that induced the sculptor of that

wonderful figure of Laocoon to exhibit him naked, notwithstanding he was

surprised in the act of sacrificing to Apollo, and consequently ought to

be shown in his sacerdotal habits, if those greater reasons had not

preponderated. Art is not yet in so high estimation with us as to obtain

so great a sacrifice as the ancients made, especially the Grecians, who

suffered themselves to be represented naked, whether they were generals,

lawgivers, or kings.

Under this head of balancing and choosing the greater reason, or of two

evils taking the least, we may consider the conduct of Rubens in the

Luxembourg gallery, of mixing allegorical figures with representations of

real personages, which, though acknowledged to be a fault, yet, if the

artist considered himself as engaged to furnish this gallery with a rich

and splendid ornament, this could not be done, at least in an equal

degree, without peopling the air and water with these allegorical

figures: he therefore accomplished that he purposes. In this case all

lesser considerations, which tend to obstruct the great end of the work,

must yield and give way.

If it is objected that Rubens judged ill at first in thinking it

necessary to make his work so very ornamental, this brings the question

upon new ground. It was his peculiar style; he could paint in no other;

and he was selected for that work, probably, because it was his style.

Nobody will dispute but some of the best of the Roman or Bolognian

schools would have produced a more learned and more noble work.

This leads us to another important province of taste, of weighing the

value of the different classes of the art, and of estimating them

accordingly.

All arts have means within them of applying themselves with success both

to the intellectual and sensitive part of our natures. It can be no

dispute, supposing both these means put in practice with equal abilities,

to which we ought to give the preference: to him who represents the

heroic arts and more dignified passions of man, or to him who, by the

help of meretricious ornaments, however elegant and graceful, captivates

the sensuality, as it may be called, of our taste. Thus the Roman and

Bolognian schools are reasonably preferred to the Venetian, Flemish, or

Dutch schools, as they address themselves to our best and noblest

faculties.

Well-turned periods in eloquence, or harmony of numbers in poetry, which

are in those arts what colouring is in painting, however highly we may

esteem them, can never be considered as of equal importance with the art

of unfolding truths that are useful to mankind, and which make us better

or wiser. Nor can those works which remind us of the poverty and

meanness of our nature, be considered as of equal rank with what excites

ideas of grandeur, or raises and dignifies humanity; or, in the words of

a late poet, which makes the beholder learn to venerate himself as man.

It is reason and good sense therefore which ranks and estimates every

art, and every part of that art, according to its importance, from the

painter of animated down to inanimated nature. We will not allow a man,

who shall prefer the inferior style, to say it is his taste; taste here

has nothing, or at least ought to have nothing to do with the question.

He wants not taste, but sense, and soundness of judgment.

Indeed, perfection in an inferior style may be reasonably preferred to

mediocrity in the highest walks of art. A landscape of Claude Lorraine

may be preferred to a history of Luca Jordano; but hence appears the

necessity of the connoisseur's knowing in what consists the excellence of

each class, in order to judge how near it approaches to perfection.

Even in works of the same kind, as in history painting, which is composed

of various parts, excellence of an inferior species, carried to a very

high degree, will make a work very valuable, and in some measure

compensate for the absence of the higher kind of merits. It is the duty

of the connoisseur to know and esteem, as much as it may deserve, every

part of painting; he will not then think even Bassano unworthy of his

notice, who, though totally devoid of expression, sense, grace, or

elegance, may be esteemed on account of his admirable taste of colours,

which, in his best works, are little inferior to those of Titian.

Since I have mentioned Bassano, we must do him likewise the justice to

acknowledge that, though he did not aspire to the dignity of expressing

the characters and passions of men, yet, with respect to the facility and

truth in his manner of touching animals of all kinds, and giving them

what painters call their character, few have ever excelled him.

To Bassano we may add Paul Veronese and Tintoret, for their entire

inattention to what is justly esteemed the most essential part of our

art, the expression of the passions. Notwithstanding these glaring

deficiencies, we justly esteem their works; but it must be remembered

that they do not please from those defects, but from their great

excellences of another kind, and in spite of such transgressions. These

excellences, too, as far as they go, are founded in the truth of general

nature. They tell the truth, though not the whole truth.

By these considerations, which can never be too frequently impressed, may

be obviated two errors which I observed to have been, formerly at least,

the most prevalent, and to be most injurious to artists: that of thinking

taste and genius to have nothing to do with reason, and that of taking

particular living objects for nature.

I shall now say something on that part of taste which, as I have hinted

to you before, does not belong so much to the external form of things,

but is addressed to the mind, and depends on its original frame, or, to

use the expression, the organisation of the soul; I mean the imagination

and the passions. The principles of these are as invariable as the

former, and are to be known and reasoned upon in the same manner, by an

appeal to common sense deciding upon the common feelings of mankind. This

sense, and these feelings, appear to me of equal authority, and equally

conclusive.

Now this appeal implies a general uniformity and agreement in the minds

of men. It would be else an idle and vain endeavour to establish rules

of art; it would be pursuing a phantom to attempt to move affections with

which we were entirely unacquainted. We have no reason to suspect there

is a greater difference between our minds than between our forms, of

which, though there are no two alike, yet there is a general similitude

that goes through the whole race of mankind; and those who have

cultivated their taste can distinguish what is beautiful or deformed, or,

in other words, what agrees with or what deviates from the general idea

of nature, in one case as well as in the other.

The internal fabric of our mind, as well as the external form of our

bodies, being nearly uniform, it seems then to follow, of course, that as

the imagination is incapable of producing anything originally of itself,

and can only vary and combine these ideas with which it is furnished by

means of the senses, there will be, of course, an agreement in the

imaginations as in the senses of men. There being this agreement, it

follows that in all cases, in our lightest amusements as well as in our

most serious actions and engagements of life, we must regulate our

affections of every kind by that of others. The well-disciplined mind

acknowledges this authority, and submits its own opinion to the public

voice.

It is from knowing what are the general feelings and passions of mankind

that we acquire a true idea of what imagination is; though it appears as

if we had nothing to do but to consult our own particular sensations, and

these were sufficient to ensure us from all error and mistake.

A knowledge of the disposition and character of the human mind can be

acquired only by experience: a great deal will be learned, I admit, by a

habit of examining what passes in our bosoms, what are our own motives of

action, and of what kind of sentiments we are conscious on any occasion.

We may suppose a uniformity, and conclude that the same effect will be

produced by the same cause in the minds of others. This examination will

contribute to suggest to us matters of inquiry; but we can never be sure

that our own sensations are true and right till they are confirmed by

more extensive observation.

One man opposing another determines nothing but a general union of minds,

like a general combination of the forces of all mankind, makes a strength

that is irresistible. In fact, as he who does not know himself does not

know others, so it may be said with equal truth, that he who does not

know others knows himself but very imperfectly.

A man who thinks he is guarding himself against Prejudices by resisting

the authority of others, leaves open every avenue to singularity, vanity,

self-conceit, obstinacy, and many other vices, all tending to warp the

judgment and prevent the natural operation of his faculties.

This submission to others is a deference which we owe, and indeed are

forced involuntarily to pay.

In fact we are never satisfied with our opinions till they are ratified

and confirmed by the suffrages of the rest of mankind. We dispute and

wrangle for ever; we endeavour to get men to come to us when we do not go

to them.

He therefore who is acquainted with the works which have pleased

different ages and different countries, and has formed his opinion on

them, has more materials and more means of knowing what is analogous to

the mind of man than he who is conversant only with the works of his own

age or country. What has pleased, and continues to please, is likely to

please again: hence are derived the rules of art, and on this immovable

foundation they must ever stand.

This search and study of the history of the mind ought not to be confined

to one art only. It is by the analogy that one art bears to another that

many things are ascertained which either were but faintly seen, or,

perhaps, would not have been discovered at all if the inventor had not

received the first hints from the practices of a sister art on a similar

occasion. The frequent allusions which every man who treats of any art

is obliged to draw from others in order to illustrate and confirm his

principles, sufficiently show their near connection and inseparable

relation.

All arts having the same general end, which is to please, and addressing

themselves to the same faculties through the medium of the senses, it

follows that their rules and principles must have as great affinity as

the different materials and the different organs or vehicles by which

they pass to the mind will permit them to retain.

We may therefore conclude that the real substance, as it may be called,

of what goes under the name of taste, is fixed and established in the

nature of things; that there are certain and regular causes by which the

imagination and passions of men are affected; and that the knowledge of

these causes is acquired by a laborious and diligent investigation of

nature, and by the same slow progress as wisdom or knowledge of every

kind, however instantaneous its operations may appear when thus acquired.

It has been often observed that the good and virtuous man alone can

acquire this true or just relish, even of works of art. This opinion

will not appear entirely without foundation when we consider that the

same habit of mind which is acquired by our search after truth in the

more serious duties of life, is only transferred to the pursuit of

lighter amusements: the same disposition, the same desire to find

something steady, substantial, and durable, on which the mind can lean,

as it were, and rest with safety. The subject only is changed. We

pursue the same method in our search after the idea of beauty and

perfection in each; of virtue, by looking forwards beyond ourselves to

society, and to the whole; of arts, by extending our views in the same

manner to all ages and all times.

Every art, like our own, has in its composition fluctuating as well as

fixed principles. It is an attentive inquiry into their difference that

will enable us to determine how far we are influenced by custom and

habit, and what is fixed in the nature of things.

To distinguish how much has solid foundation, we may have recourse to the

same proof by which some hold wit ought to be tried--whether it preserves

itself when translated. That wit is false which can subsist only in one

language; and that picture which pleases only one age or one nation, owes

its reception to some local or accidental association of ideas.

We may apply this to every custom and habit of life. Thus the general

principles of urbanity, politeness, or civility, have been ever the same

in all nations; but the mode in which they are dressed is continually

varying. The general idea of showing respect is by making yourself less:

but the manner, whether by bowing the body, kneeling, prostration,

pulling off the upper part of our dress, or taking away the lower, is a

matter of habit. It would be unjust to conclude that all ornaments,

because they were at first arbitrarily contrived, are therefore

undeserving of our attention; on the contrary, he who neglects the

cultivation of those ornaments, acts contrarily to nature and reason. As

life would be imperfect without its highest ornaments, the arts, so these

arts themselves would be imperfect without _their_ ornaments.

Though we by no means ought to rank these with positive and substantial

beauties, yet it must be allowed that a knowledge of both is essentially

requisite towards forming a complete, whole, and perfect taste. It is in

reality from the ornaments that arts receive their peculiar character and

complexion; we may add that in them we find the characteristical mark of

a national taste, as by throwing up a feather in the air we know which

way the wind blows, better than by a more heavy matter.

The striking distinction between the works of the Roman, Bolognian, and

Venetian schools, consists more in that general effect which is produced

by colours than in the more profound excellences of the art; at least it

is from thence that each is distinguished and known at first sight. As

it is the ornaments rather than the proportions of architecture which at

the first glance distinguish the different orders from each other; the

Doric is known by its triglyphs, the Ionic by its volutes, and the

Corinthian by its acanthus.

What distinguishes oratory from a cold narration, is a more liberal

though chaste use of these ornaments which go under the name of

figurative and metaphorical expressions; and poetry distinguishes itself

from oratory by words and expressions still more ardent and glowing. What

separates and distinguishes poetry is more particularly the ornament of

_verse_; it is this which gives it its character, and is an essential,

without which it cannot exist. Custom has appropriated different metre

to different kinds of composition, in which the world is not perfectly

agreed. In England the dispute is not yet settled which is to be

preferred, rhyme or blank verse. But however we disagree about what

these metrical ornaments shall be, that some metre is essentially

necessary is universally acknowledged.

In poetry or eloquence, to determine how far figurative or metaphorical

language may proceed, and when it begins to be affectation or beside the

truth, must be determined by taste, though this taste we must never

forget is regulated and formed by the presiding feelings of mankind, by

those works which have approved themselves to all times and all persons.

Thus, though eloquence has undoubtedly an essential and intrinsic

excellence, and immovable principles common to all languages, founded in

the nature of our passions and affections, yet it has its ornaments and

modes of address which are merely arbitrary. What is approved in the

Eastern nations as grand and majestic, would be considered by the Greeks

and Romans as turgid and inflated; and they, in return, would be thought

by the Orientals to express themselves in a cold and insipid manner.

We may add likewise to the credit of ornaments, that it is by their means

that art itself accomplishes its purpose. Fresnoy calls colouring, which

is one of the chief ornaments of painting, _lena sororis_, that which

procures lovers and admirers to the more valuable excellences of the art.

It appears to be the same right turn of mind which enables a man to

acquire the _truth_, or the just idea of what is right in the ornaments,

as in the more stable principles of art. It has still the same centre of

perfection, though it is the centre of a smaller circle.

To illustrate this by the fashion of dress, in which there is allowed to

be a good or, bad taste. The component parts of dress are continually

changing from great to little, from short to long, but the general form

still remains; it is still the same general dress which is comparatively

fixed, though on a very slender foundation, but it is on this which

fashion must rest. He who invents with the most success, or dresses in,

the best taste, would probably, from the same sagacity employed to

greater purposes, have discovered equal skill, or have formed the same

correct taste in the highest labours of art.

I have mentioned taste in dress, which is certainly one of the lowest

subjects to which this word is applied; yet, as I have before observed,

there is a right even here, however narrow its foundation respecting the

fashion of any particular nation. But we have still more slender means

of determining, in regard to the different customs of different ages or

countries, to which to give the preference, since they seem to be all

equally removed from nature.

If an European, when he has cut off his beard, and put false hair on his

head, or bound up his own natural hair in regular hard knots, as unlike

nature as he can possibly make it; and having rendered them immovable by

the help of the fat of hogs, has covered the whole with flour, laid on by

a machine with the utmost regularity; if, when thus attired he issues

forth, he meets a Cherokee Indian, who has bestowed as much time at his

toilet, and laid on with equal care and attention his yellow and red

ochre on particular parts of his forehead or cheeks, as he judges most

becoming; whoever despises the other for this attention to the fashion of

his country, whichever of these two first feels himself provoked to

laugh, is the barbarian.

All these fashions are very innocent, neither worth disquisition, nor any

endeavour to alter them, as the change would, in all probability, be

equally distant from nature. The only circumstances against which

indignation may reasonably be moved, are where the operation is painful

or destructive of health, such as is practised at Otahaiti, and the

straight lacing of the English ladies; of the last of which, how

destructive it must be to health and long life, the professor of anatomy

took an opportunity of proving a few days since in this Academy.

It is in dress as in things of greater consequence. Fashions originate

from those only who have the high and powerful advantages of rank, birth,

and fortune; as many of the ornaments of art, those at least for which no

reason can be given, are transmitted to us, are adopted, and acquire

their consequence from the company in which we have been used to see

them. As Greece and Rome are the fountains from whence have flowed all

kinds of excellence, to that veneration which they have a right to claim

for the pleasure and knowledge which they have afforded us, we

voluntarily add our approbation of every ornament and every custom that

belonged to them, even to the fashion of their dress. For it may be

observed that, not satisfied with them in their own place, we make no

difficulty of dressing statues of modern heroes or senators in the

fashion of the Roman armour or peaceful robe; we go so far as hardly to

bear a statue in any other drapery.

The figures of the great men of those nations have come down to us in

sculpture. In sculpture remain almost all the excellent specimens of

ancient art. We have so far associated personal dignity to the persons

thus represented, and the truth of art to their manner of representation,

that it is not in our power any longer to separate them. This is not so

in painting; because, having no excellent ancient portraits, that

connection was never formed. Indeed, we could no more venture to paint a

general officer in a Roman military habit, than we could make a statue in

the present uniform. But since we have no ancient portraits, to show how

ready we are to adopt those kind of prejudices, we make the best

authority among the moderns serve the same purpose. The great variety of

excellent portraits with which Vandyke has enriched this nation, we are

not content to admire for their real excellence, but extend our

approbation even to the dress which happened to be the fashion of that

age. We all very well remember how common it was a few years ago for

portraits to be drawn in this Gothic dress, and this custom is not yet

entirely laid aside. By this means it must be acknowledged very ordinary

pictures acquired something of the air and effect of the works of

Vandyke, and appeared therefore at first sight to be better pictures than

they really were; they appeared so, however, to those only who had the

means of making this association, for when made, it was irresistible. But

this association is nature, and refers to that Secondary truth that comes

from conformity to general prejudice and opinion; it is therefore not

merely fantastical. Besides the prejudice which we have in favour of

ancient dresses, there may be likewise other reasons, amongst which we

may justly rank the simplicity of them, consisting of little more than

one single piece of drapery, without those whimsical capricious forms by

which all other dresses are embarrassed.

Thus, though it is from the prejudice we have in favour of the ancients,

who have taught us architecture, that we have adopted likewise their

ornaments; and though we are satisfied that neither nature nor reason is

the foundation of those beauties which we imagine we see in that art, yet

if any one persuaded of this truth should, therefore, invent new orders

of equal beauty, which we will suppose to be possible, yet they would not

please, nor ought he to complain, since the old has that great advantage

of having custom and prejudice on its side. In this case we leave what

has every prejudice in its favour to take that which will have no

advantage over what we have left, but novelty, which soon destroys

itself, and, at any rate, is but a weak antagonist against custom.

These ornaments, having the right of possession, ought not to be removed

but to make room for not only what has higher pretensions, but such

pretensions as will balance the evil and confusion which innovation

always brings with it.

To this we may add, even the durability of the materials will often

contribute to give a superiority to one object over another. Ornaments

in buildings, with which taste is principally concerned, are composed of

materials which last longer than those of which dress is composed; it,

therefore, makes higher pretensions to our favour and prejudice.

Some attention is surely required to what we can no more get rid of than

we can go out of ourselves. We are creatures of prejudice; we neither

can nor ought to eradicate it; we must only regulate, it by reason, which

regulation by reason is, indeed, little more than obliging the lesser,

the focal and temporary prejudices, to give way to those which are more

durable and lasting.

He, therefore, who in his practice of portrait painting wishes to dignify

his subject, which we will suppose to be a lady, will not paint her in

the modern dress, the familiarity of which alone is sufficient to destroy

all dignity. He takes care that his work shall correspond to those ideas

and that imagination which he knows will regulate the judgment of others,

and, therefore, dresses his figure something with the general air of the

antique for the sake of dignity, and preserves something of the modern

for the sake of likeness. By this conduct his works correspond with

those prejudices which we have in favour of what we continually see; and

the relish of the antique simplicity corresponds with what we may call

the, more learned and scientific prejudice.

There was a statue made not long since of Voltaire, which the sculptor,

not having that respect for the prejudices of mankind which he ought to

have, has made entirely naked, and as meagre and emaciated as the

original is said to be. The consequence is what might be expected; it

has remained in the sculptor's shop, though it was intended as a public

ornament and a public honour to Voltaire, as it was procured at the

expense of his cotemporary wits and admirers.

Whoever would reform a nation, supposing a bad taste to prevail in it,

will not accomplish his purpose by going directly against the stream of

their prejudices. Men's minds must be prepared to receive what is new to

them. Reformation is a work of time. A national taste, however wrong it

may be, cannot be totally change at once; we must yield a little to the

prepossession which has taken hold on the mind, and we may then bring

people to adopt what would offend them if endeavoured to be introduced by

storm. When Battisto Franco was employed, in conjunction with Titian,

Paul Veronese, and Tintoret, to adorn the library of St. Mark, his work,

Vasari says, gave less satisfaction than any of the others: the dry

manner of the Roman school was very ill calculated to please eyes that

had been accustomed to the luxuriance, splendour, and richness of

Venetian colouring. Had the Romans been the judges of this work,

probably the determination would have been just contrary; for in the more

noble parts of the art Battisto Franco was, perhaps, not inferior to any

of his rivals.

* * * * *

Gentlemen,--It has been the main scope and principal end of this

discourse to demonstrate the reality of a standard in taste, as well as

in corporeal beauty; that a false or depraved taste is a thing as well

known, as easily discovered, as anything that is deformed, misshapen, or

wrong in our form or outward make; and that this knowledge is derived

from the uniformity of sentiments among mankind, from whence proceeds the

knowledge of what are the general habits of nature, the result of which

is an idea of perfect beauty.

If what has been advanced be true, that besides this beauty or truth

which is formed on the uniform eternal and immutable laws of nature, and

which of necessity can be but one; that besides this one immutable verity

there are likewise what we have called apparent or secondary truths

proceeding from local and temporary prejudices, fancies, fashions, or

accidental connection of ideas; if it appears that these last have still

their foundation, however slender, in the original fabric of our minds,

it follows that all these truths or beauties deserve and require the

attention of the artist in proportion to their stability or duration, or

as their influence is more or less extensive. And let me add that as

they ought not to pass their just bounds, so neither do they, in a well-

regulated taste, at all prevent or weaken the influence of these general

principles, which alone can give to art its true and permanent dignity.

To form this just taste is undoubtedly in your own power, but it is to

reason and philosophy that you must have recourse; from them we must

borrow the balance by which is to be weighed and estimated the value of

every pretension that intrudes itself on your notice.

The general objection which is made to the introduction of philosophy

into the regions of taste is, that it checks and restrains the flights of

the imagination, and gives that timidity which an over-carefulness not to

err or act contrary to reason is likely to produce.

It is not so. Fear is neither reason nor philosophy. The true spirit of

philosophy by giving knowledge gives a manly confidence, and substitutes

rational firmness in the place of vain presumption. A man of real taste

is always a man of judgment in other respects; and those inventions which

either disdain or shrink from reason, are generally, I fear, more like

the dreams of a distempered brain than the exalted enthusiasm of a sound

and true genius. In the midst of the highest flights of fancy or

imagination, reason ought to preside from first to last, though I admit

her more powerful operation is upon reflection.

I cannot help adding that some of the greatest names of antiquity, and

those who have most distinguished themselves in works of genius and

imagination, were equally eminent for their critical skill. Plato,

Aristotle, Cicero, and Horace; and among the moderns, Boileau, Corneille,

Pope, and Dryden, are at least instances of genius not being destroyed by

attention or subjection to rules and science. I should hope, therefore,

that the natural consequence likewise of what has been said would be to

excite in you a desire of knowing the principles and conduct of the great

masters of our art, and respect and veneration for them when known.