nearly as you can, in the order, in the manner, and 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 with whom you are to contend.
DISCOURSE VII
_Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the
Distribution of the Prizes, December 10, 1776._
The Reality of a Standard of Taste, as well as of Corporal Beauty.
Besides this Immutable Truth, there are Secondary Truths, which are
Variable; both requiring the Attention of the Artist, in Proportion
to their Stability or their Influence.
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 kinds 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 palette,
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 digesting his notions. He ought not to be wholly
unacquainted with that part of philosophy which gives 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 desire 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 in 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 vernal 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 latter 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 nearly in the condition in which we
received it; it not being much 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 used 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
our 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 allows 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 this faculty of too high an original to submit to the
authority of an earthly tribunal. It likewise corresponds 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 in which we speak, 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 the 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 ordonnance 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, when 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 degree 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 follows 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
notions are not conformable to those of nature, or universal opinion,
must be considered as more or less capricious.
My notion of nature comprehends 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. The terms beauty, or
nature, which are general ideas, are but different modes of expressing
the same thing, whether we apply these terms to statues, poetry, or
pictures. 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 art, he may say, 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 artist strictly attentive 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 Giulio 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 many of his pictures makes us more
easily give credit to this report. That it was too much his own
practice, the Sacrifice to Silenus, and the Triumph of Bacchus and
Ariadne,[9] may be produced as instances; but this principle is still
more apparent, and may be said to be even more ostentatiously displayed,
in his Perseus and Medusa’s Head.[10]
This is undoubtedly a subject of great bustle and tumult, and that the
first effect of the picture may correspond to the subject, every
principle of composition is violated; there is no principal figure, no
principal light, no groups; everything is dispersed, and in such a state
of confusion, that the eye finds no repose anywhere. In consequence of
the forbidding appearance, I remember turning from it with disgust, and
should not have looked a second time, if I had not been called back to a
closer inspection. I then indeed found, what we may expect always to
find in the works of Poussin, correct drawing, forcible expression, and
just character; in short, all the excellences which so much distinguish
the works of this learned painter.
This conduct of Poussin I hold to be entirely improper to imitate. A
picture should please at first sight, and appear to invite the
spectator’s attention: if on the contrary the general effect offends the
eye, a second view is not always sought, whatever more substantial and
intrinsic merit it may possess.
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 care that the eye
be not perplexed and distracted by a confusion of equal parts, or equal
lights, or offended by an unharmonious mixture of colours, as we should
guard against offending the ear by unharmonious sounds. We may venture
to be more confident of the truth of this observation, since we find
that Shakspeare, 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
passion_, says he, _you must acquire and 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, was and is, to
hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature_. No one can deny, 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 a
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.