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* * * * * * * *
Library Edition
THE COMPLETE WORKS
OF
JOHN RUSKIN
MODERN PAINTERS
VOLUME II--OF TRUTH AND THEORETIC FACULTIES
VOLUME III--OF MANY THINGS
NATIONAL LIBRARY ASSOCIATION
NEW YORK CHICAGO
MODERN PAINTERS.
VOL. III.,
CONTAINING
PART IV.,
OF MANY THINGS.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PART IV. OF MANY THINGS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.--Of the received Opinions touching the "Grand Style" 1
" II.--Of Realization 16
" III.--Of the Real Nature of Greatness of Style 23
" IV.--Of the False Ideal:--First, Religious 44
" V.--Of the False Ideal:--Secondly, Profane 61
" VI.--Of the True Ideal:--First, Purist 70
" VII.--Of the True Ideal:--Secondly, Naturalist 77
" VIII.--Of the True Ideal:--Thirdly, Grotesque 92
" IX.--Of Finish 108
" X.--Of the Use of Pictures 124
" XI.--Of the Novelty of Landscape 144
" XII.--Of the Pathetic Fallacy 152
" XIII.--Of Classical Landscape 168
" XIV.--Of Mediaeval Landscape:--First, the Fields 191
" XV.--Of Mediaeval Landscape:--Secondly, the Rocks 229
" XVI.--Of Modern Landscape 248
" XVII.--The Moral of Landscape 280
" XVIII.--Of the Teachers of Turner 308
APPENDIX.
I.--Claude's Tree-drawing 333
II.--German Philosophy 336
III.--Plagiarism 338
LIST OF PLATES TO VOL. III.
Drawn by Engraved by
Frontispiece. Lake, Land, _The Author_ J. C. ARMYTAGE.
and Cloud.
Facing
Plate page
1. True and False Griffins _The Author_ R. P. CUFF 106
2. Drawing of Tree-bark _Various_ J. H. LE KEUX 114
3. Strength of old Pine _The Author_ J. H. LE KEUX 116
4. Ramification according _Claude_ J. H. LE KEUX 117
to Claude
5. Good and Bad _Turner and J. COUSEN 118
Tree-drawing Constable_
6. Foreground Leafage _The Author_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 121
7. Botany of the Thirteenth _Missal-Painters_ HENRY SHAW 203
Century
8. The Growth of Leaves _The Author_ R. P. CUFF 204
9. Botany of the Fourteenth _Missal-Painters_ CUFF; H. SWAN 207
Century
10. Geology of the Middle _Leonardo, etc._ R. P. CUFF 238
Ages
11. Latest Purism _Raphael_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 313
12. The Shores of Wharfe _J. W. M. Turner_ THE AUTHOR 314
13. First Mountain-Naturalism _Masaccio_ J. H. LE KEUX 315
14. The Lombard Apennine _The Author_ THOS. LUPTON 315
15. St. George of the Seaweed _The Author_ THOS. LUPTON 315
16. Early Naturalism _Titian_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 316
17. Advanced Naturalism _Tintoret_ J. C. ARMYTAGE 316
PREFACE.
As this preface is nearly all about myself, no one need take the trouble
of reading it, unless he happens to be desirous of knowing-- what I, at
least, am bound to state,--the circumstances which have caused the long
delay of the work, as well as the alterations which will be noticed in
its form.
The first and second volumes were written to check, as far as I
could, the attacks upon Turner which prevented the public from
honoring his genius, at the time when his power was greatest. The
check was partially given, but too late; Turner was seized by
painful illness not long after the second volume appeared; his
works, towards the close of the year 1845, showed a conclusive
failure of power; and I saw that nothing remained for me to write,
but his epitaph.
The critics had done their proper and appointed work; they had
embittered, more than those who did not know Turner intimately could
have believed possible, the closing years of his life; and had
blinded the world in general (as it appears ordained by Fate that
the world always _shall_ be blinded) to the presence of a great
spirit among them, till the hour of its departure. With them, and
their successful work, I had nothing more to do; the account of gain
and loss, of gifts and gratitude, between Turner and his countrymen,
was for ever closed. _He_ could only be left to his quiet death at
Chelsea,--the sun upon his face; _they_ to dispose a length of
funeral through Ludgate, and bury, with threefold honor, his body in
St. Paul's, his pictures at Charing Cross, and his purposes in
Chancery. But with respect to the illustration and preservation of
those of his works which remained unburied, I felt that much might
yet be done, if I could at all succeed in proving that these works
had some nobleness in them, and were worth preservation. I pursued
my task, therefore, as I had at first proposed, with this only
difference in method,--that instead of writing in continued haste,
such as I had been forced into at first by the urgency of the
occasion, I set myself to do the work as well as I could, and to
collect materials for the complete examination of the canons of art
received among us.
I have now given ten years of my life to the single purpose of
enabling myself to judge rightly of art, and spent them in labor as
earnest and continuous as men usually undertake to gain position, or
accumulate fortune. It is true, that the public still call me an
"amateur;" nor have I ever been able to persuade them that it was
possible to work steadily and hard with any other motive than that
of gaining bread, or to give up a fixed number of hours every day to
the furtherance of an object unconnected with personal interests. I
have, however, given up so much of life to this object; earnestly
desiring to ascertain, and be able to teach, the truth respecting
art; and also knowing that this truth was, by time and labor,
definitely ascertainable.
It is an idea too frequently entertained, by persons who are not much
interested in art, that there are no laws of right or wrong concerning
it; and that the best art is that which pleases most widely. Hence the
constant allegation of "dogmatism" against any one who states
unhesitatingly either preference or principle, respecting pictures.
There are, however, laws of truth and right in painting, just as fixed
as those of harmony in music, or of affinity in chemistry. Those laws
are perfectly ascertainable by labor, and ascertainable no other way.
It is as ridiculous for any one to speak positively about painting who
has not given a great part of his life to its study, as it would be for
a person who had never studied chemistry to give a lecture on
affinities of elements; but it is also as ridiculous for a person to
speak hesitatingly about laws of painting who has conscientiously given
his time to their ascertainment, as it would be for Mr. Faraday to
announce in a dubious manner that iron had an affinity for oxygen, and
to put the question to the vote of his audience whether it had or not.
Of course there are many things, in all stages of knowledge, which
cannot be dogmatically stated; and it will be found, by any candid
reader, either of what I have before written, or of this book, that in
many cases, I am _not_ dogmatic. The phrase, "I think so," or, "it
seems so to me," will be met with continually; and I pray the reader to
believe that I use such expression always in seriousness, never as
matter of form.
It may perhaps be thought that, considering the not very elaborate
structure of the following volumes, they might have been finished
sooner. But it will be found, on reflection, that the ranges of
inquiry engaged in demanded, even for their slight investigation,
time and pains which are quite unrepresented in the result. It often
required a week or two's hard walking to determine some geological
problem, now dismissed in an unnoticed sentence; and it constantly
needed examination and thought, prolonged during many days in the
picture gallery, to form opinions which the reader may suppose to be
dictated by caprice, and will hear only to dispute.
A more serious disadvantage, resulting from the necessary breadth of
subject, was the chance of making mistakes in minor and accessory
points. For the labor of a critic who sincerely desires to be just,
extends into more fields than it is possible for any single hand to
furrow straightly. He has to take _some_ note of many physical
sciences; of optics, geometry, geology, botany, and anatomy; he must
acquaint himself with the works of all great artists, and with the
temper and history of the times in which they lived; he must be a fair
metaphysician, and a careful observer of the phenomena of natural
scenery. It is not possible to extend the range of work thus widely,
without running the chance of occasionally making mistakes; and if I
carefully guarded against that chance, I should be compelled both to
shorten my powers of usefulness in many directions, and to lose much
time over what work I undertook. All that I can secure, therefore, is
rightness in main points and main tendencies; for it is perfectly
possible to protect oneself against small errors, and yet to make
great and final error in the sum of work: on the other hand, it is
equally possible to fall into many small errors, and yet be right in
tendency all the while, and entirely right in the end. In this
respect, some men may be compared to careful travellers, who neither
stumble at stones, nor slip in sloughs, but have, from the beginning
of their journey to its close, chosen the wrong road; and others to
those who, however slipping or stumbling at the wayside, have yet
their eyes fixed on the true gate and goal (stumbling, perhaps, even
the more because they have), and will not fail of reaching them. Such
are assuredly the safer guides: he who follows them may avoid their
slips, and be their companion in attainment.
Although, therefore, it is not possible but that, in the discussion
of so many subjects as are necessarily introduced in the following
pages, here and there a chance should arise of minor mistake or
misconception, the reader need not be disturbed by the detection of
any such. He will find always that they do not affect the matter
mainly in hand.
I refer especially in these remarks to the chapters on Classical and
Mediaeval Landscape. It is certain, that in many respects, the views
there stated must be inaccurate or incomplete; for how should it be
otherwise when the subject is one whose proper discussion would
require knowledge of the entire history of two great ages of the
world? But I am well assured that the suggestions in those chapters
are useful; and that even if, after farther study of the subject,
the reader should find cause to differ with me in this or the other
speciality, he will yet thank me for helping him to a certain length
in the investigation, and confess, perhaps, that he could not at
last have been right, if I had not first ventured to be wrong.
And of one thing he may be certified, that any error I fall into will
not be in an illogical deduction: I may mistake the meaning of a
symbol, or the angle of a rock-cleavage, but not draw an inconsequent
conclusion. I state this, because it has often been said that I am not
logical, by persons who do not so much as know what logic means. Next
to imagination, the power of perceiving logical relation is one of the
rarest among men; certainly, of those with whom I have conversed, I
have found always ten who had deep feeling, quick wit, or extended
knowledge, for one who could set down a syllogism without a flaw; and
for ten who could set down a syllogism, only one who could _entirely_
understand that a square has four sides. Even as I am sending these
sheets to press, a work is put into my hand, written to prove (I would,
from the depth of my heart, it could prove) that there was no ground
for what I said in the Stones of Venice respecting the logical
probability of the continuity of evil. It seems learned, temperate,
thoughtful, everything in feeling and aim that a book should be, and
yet it begins with this sentence:
"The question cited in our preface, 'Why not infinite good out
of infinite evil?' must be taken to imply--for it else can
have no weight,--that in order to the production of infinite
good, the existence of infinite evil is indispensable."
So, if I had said that there was no reason why honey should not be
sucked out of a rock, and oil out of a flinty rock, the writer would
have told me this sentence must be taken to imply--for it else could
have no weight,--that in order to the production of honey, the
existence of rocks is indispensable. No less intense and marvellous are
the logical errors into which our best writers are continually falling,
owing to the notion that laws of logic will help them better than
common sense. Whereas any man who can reason at all, does it
instinctively, and takes leaps over intermediate syllogisms by the
score, yet never misses his footing at the end of the leap; but he who
cannot instinctively argue, might as well, with the gout in both feet,
try to follow a chamois hunter by the help of crutches, as to follow,
by the help of syllogism, a person who has the right use of his reason.
I should not, however, have thought it necessary to allude to this
common charge against my writings, but that it happens to confirm some
views I have long entertained, and which the reader will find glanced
at in their proper place, respecting the necessity of a more
_practically_ logical education for our youth. Of other various charges
I need take no note, because they are always answered the one by the
other. The complaint made against me to-day for being narrow and
exclusive, is met to-morrow by indignation that I should admire schools
whose characters cannot be reconciled; and the assertion of one critic,
that I am always contradicting myself, is balanced by the vexation of
another, at my ten years' obstinacies in error.
I once intended the illustrations to these volumes to be more numerous
and elaborate, but the art of photography now enables any reader to
obtain as many memoranda of the facts of nature as he needs; and, in
the course of my ten years' pause, I have formed plans for the
representation of some of the works of Turner on their own scale; so
that it would have been quite useless to spend time in reducing
drawings to the size of this page, which were afterwards to be
engraved of their own size.[1] I have therefore here only given
illustrations enough to enable the reader, who has not access to the
works of Turner, to understand the principles laid down in the text,
and apply them to such art as may be within his reach. And I owe
sincere thanks to the various engravers who have worked with me, for
the zeal and care with which they have carried out the requirements in
each case, and overcome difficulties of a nature often widely
differing from those involved by their habitual practice. I would not
make invidious distinction, where all have done well; but may perhaps
be permitted to point, as examples of what I mean, to the 3rd and 6th
Plates in this volume (the 6th being left unlettered in order not to
injure the effect of its ground), in which Mr. Le Keux and Mr.
Armytage have exactly facsimiled, in line engraving, drawings of mine
made on a grey ground touched with white, and have given even the
_loaded_ look of the body color. The power of thus imitating actual
touches of color with pure lines will be, I believe, of great future
importance in rendering Turner's work on a large scale. As for the
merit or demerit of these or other drawings of my own, which I am
obliged now for the sake of illustration often to engrave, I believe I
could speak of it impartially, and should unreluctantly do so; but I
leave, as most readers will think I ought, such judgment to them,
merely begging them to remember that there are two general principles
to be kept in mind in examining the drawings of any writer on art: the
first, that they ought at least to show such ordinary skill in
draughtsmanship, as to prove that the writer knows _what_ the good
qualities of drawing _are_; the second, that they are never to be
expected to equal, in either execution or conception, the work of
accomplished artists,--for the simple reason, that in order to do
_any_thing thoroughly well, the whole mind, and the whole available
time, must be given to that single art. It is probable, for reasons
which will be noted in the following pages, that the critical and
executive faculties are in great part independent of each other; so
that it is nearly as great an absurdity to require of any critic that
he should equal in execution even the work which he condemns, as to
require of the audience which hisses a piece of vocal music that they
should instantly chant it in truer harmony themselves. But whether
this be true or not (it is at least untrue to this extent, that a
certain power of drawing is _indispensable_ to the critic of art), and
supposing that the executive and critical powers always exist in some
correspondent degree in the same person, still they cannot be
cultivated to the same extent. The attention required for the
development of a theory is necessarily withdrawn from the design of a
drawing, and the time devoted to the realization of a form is lost to
the solution of a problem. Choice _must_ at last be made between one
and the other power, as the principal aim of life; and if the painter
should find it necessary sometimes to explain one of his pictures in
words, or the writer to illustrate his meaning with a drawing, the
skill of the one need not be doubted because his logic is feeble, nor
the sense of the other because his pencil is listless.
As, however, it is sometimes alleged by the opponents of my
principles, that I have never _done_ _any_thing, it is proper that the
reader should know exactly the amount of work for which I am
answerable in these illustrations. When an example is given from any
of the works of Turner, it is either etched by myself from the
original drawing, or engraved from a drawing of mine, translating
Turner's work out of color into black and white, as for instance, the
frontispiece to the fourth volume. When a plate is inscribed as
"_after_" such and such a master, I have always myself made the
drawing, in black and white, from the original picture; as, for
instance, Plate 11, in this volume. If it has been made from a
previously existing engraving, it is inscribed with the name of the
first engraver at the left-hand lowest corner; as, for instance, Plate
18, in Vol. IV. Outline etchings are either by my own hand on the
steel, as Plate 12, here, and 20, 21, in Vol. IV.; or copies from my
pen drawings, etched by Mr. Boys, with a fidelity for which I
sincerely thank him; one, Plate 22, Vol. IV., is both drawn and etched
by Mr. Boys from an old engraving. Most of the other illustrations are
engraved from my own studies from nature. The colored Plate (7, in
this volume) is from a drawing executed with great skill by my
assistant, Mr. J. J. Laing, from MSS. in the British Museum; and the
lithography of it has been kindly superintended by Mr. Henry Shaw,
whose renderings of mediaeval ornaments stand, as far as I know, quite
unrivalled in modern art. The two woodcuts of mediaeval design, Figs. 1
and 3, are also from drawings by Mr. Laing, admirably cut by Miss
Byfield. I use this word "admirably," not with reference to mere
delicacy of execution, which can usually be had for money, but to the
perfect fidelity of facsimile, which is in general _not_ to be had for
money, and by which Miss Byfield has saved me all trouble with respect
to the numerous woodcuts in the fourth volume; first, by her excellent
renderings of various portions of Albert Durer's woodcuts; and,
secondly, by reproducing, to their last dot or scratch, my own pen
diagrams, drawn in general so roughly that few wood-engravers would
have condescended to cut them with care, and yet always involving some
points in which care was indispensable. One or two changes have been
permitted in the arrangement of the book, which make the text in
these volumes not altogether a symmetrical continuation of that in
former ones. Thus, I thought it better to put the numbers of
paragraphs always at the left-hand side of the page; and as the
summaries, in small type, appeared to me for the most part cumbrous
and useless, I have banished them, except where there were complicated
divisions of subject which it seemed convenient to indicate at the
margin. I am not sorry thus to carry out my own principle of the
sacrifice of architectural or constructive symmetry to practical
service. The plates are, in a somewhat unusual way, numbered
consecutively through the two volumes, as I intend them to be also
through the fifth. This plan saves much trouble in references.
I have only to express, in conclusion, my regret that it has been
impossible to finish the work within the limits first proposed.
Having, of late, found my designs always requiring enlargement in
process of execution, I will take care, in future, to set no limits
whatsoever to any good intentions. In the present instance I trust
the reader will pardon me, as the later efforts of our schools of
art have necessarily introduced many new topics of discussion.
And so I wish him heartily a happy New Year.
Denmark Hill, Jan. 1856.
[1] I should be very grateful to the proprietors of pictures or
drawings by Turner, if they would send me lists of the works
in their possession; as I am desirous of forming a systematic
catalogue of all his works.
[Illustration: Lake, Land, and Cloud. (near Como.)]
MODERN PAINTERS.
PART IV.
OF MANY THINGS.
CHAPTER I.
OF THE RECEIVED OPINIONS TOUCHING THE "GRAND STYLE."
Sec. 1. In taking up the clue of an inquiry, now intermitted for nearly
ten years, it may be well to do as a traveller would, who had to
recommence an interrupted journey in a guideless country; and,
ascending, as it were, some little hill beside our road, note how
far we have already advanced, and what pleasantest ways we may
choose for farther progress.
I endeavored, in the beginning of the first volume, to divide the
sources of pleasure open to us in Art into certain groups, which
might conveniently be studied in succession. After some preliminary
discussion, it was concluded (Part I. Chap. III. Sec. 86), that these
groups were, in the main, three; consisting, first, of the pleasures
taken in perceiving simple resemblance to Nature (Ideas of Truth);
secondly, of the pleasures taken in the beauty of the things chosen
to be painted (Ideas of Beauty); and, lastly, of pleasures taken in
the meanings and relations of these things (Ideas of Relation).
The first volume, treating of the ideas of Truth, was chiefly occupied
with an inquiry into the various success with which different artists
had represented the facts of Nature,--an inquiry necessarily conducted
very imperfectly, owing to the want of pictorial illustration.
The second volume nearly opened the inquiry into the nature of ideas
of Beauty and Relation, by analysing (as far as I was able to do so)
the two faculties of the human mind which mainly seized such ideas;
namely, the contemplative and imaginative faculties.
It remains for us to examine the various success of artists, especially
of the great landscape-painter whose works have been throughout our
principal subject, in addressing these faculties of the human mind, and
to consider who among them has conveyed the noblest ideas of beauty,
and touched the deepest sources of thought.
Sec. 2. I do not intend, however, now to pursue the inquiry in a method
so laboriously systematic; for the subject may, it seems to me, be
more usefully treated by pursuing the different questions which rise
out of it just as they occur to us, without too great scrupulousness
in marking connections, or insisting on sequences. Much time is
wasted by human beings, in general, on establishment of systems; and
it often takes more labor to master the intricacies of an artificial
connection, than to remember the separate facts which are so
carefully connected. I suspect that system-makers, in general, are
not of much more use, each in his own domain, than, in that of
Pomona, the old women who tie cherries upon sticks, for the more
convenient portableness of the same. To cultivate well, and choose
well, your cherries, is of some importance; but if they can be had
in their own wild way of clustering about their crabbed stalk, it is
a better connection for them than any other; and, if they cannot,
then, so that they be not bruised, it makes to a boy of a practical
disposition, not much difference whether he gets them by handfuls,
or in beaded symmetry on the exalting stick. I purpose, therefore,
henceforward to trouble myself little with sticks or twine, but to
arrange my chapters with a view to convenient reference, rather than
to any careful division of subjects, and to follow out, in any
by-ways that may open, on right hand or left, whatever question it
seems useful at any moment to settle.
Sec. 3. And, in the outset, I find myself met by one which I ought to
have touched upon before--one of especial interest in the present
state of the Arts. I have said that the art is greatest which
includes the greatest ideas; but I have not endeavored to define the
nature of this greatness in the ideas themselves. We speak of great
truths, of great beauties, great thoughts. What is it which makes
one truth greater than another, one thought greater than another?
This question is, I repeat, of peculiar importance at the present
time; for, during a period now of some hundred and fifty years, all
writers on Art who have pretended to eminence, have insisted much on
a supposed distinction between what they call the Great and the Low
Schools; using the terms "High Art," "Great or Ideal Style," and
other such, as descriptive of a certain noble manner of painting,
which it was desirable that all students of Art should be early led
to reverence and adopt; and characterising as "vulgar," or "low," or
"realist," another manner of painting and conceiving, which it was
equally necessary that all students should be taught to avoid.
But lately this established teaching, never very intelligible, has
been gravely called in question. The advocates and self-supposed
practisers of "High Art" are beginning to be looked upon with doubt,
and their peculiar phraseology to be treated with even a certain
degree of ridicule. And other forms of Art are partly developed
among us, which do not pretend to be high, but rather to be strong,
healthy, and humble. This matter of "highness" in Art, therefore
deserves our most careful consideration. Has it been, or is it, a
true highness, a true princeliness, or only a show of it, consisting
in courtly manners and robes of state? Is it rocky height or cloudy
height, adamant or vapor, on which the sun of praise so long has
risen and set? It will be well at once to consider this.
Sec. 4. And first, let us get, as quickly as may be, at the exact
meaning with which the advocates of "High Art" use that somewhat
obscure and figurative term.
I do not know that the principles in question are anywhere more
distinctly expressed than in two papers in the Idler, written by Sir
Joshua Reynolds, of course under the immediate sanction of Johnson;
and which may thus be considered as the utterance of the views then
held upon the subject by the artists of chief skill, and critics of
most sense, arranged in a form so brief and clear, as to admit of
their being brought before the public for a morning's entertainment.
I cannot, therefore, it seems to me, do better than quote these two
letters, or at least the important parts of them, examining the exact
meaning of each passage as it occurs. There are, in all, in the Idler
three letters on painting, Nos. 76, 79, and 82; of these, the first is
directed only against the impertinences of pretended connoisseurs, and
is as notable for its faithfulness, as for its wit, in the description
of the several modes of criticism in an artificial and ignorant state
of society; it is only, therefore, in the two last papers that we find
the expression of the doctrines which it is our business to examine.
No. 79 (Saturday, Oct. 20th, 1759) begins, after a short preamble,
with the following passage:--
"Amongst the painters, and the writers on painting, there is one
maxim universally admitted and continually inculcated. Imitate
nature is the invariable rule; but I know none who have
explained in what manner this rule is to be understood; the
sequence of which is, that every one takes it in the most
obvious sense, that objects are represented naturally when they
have such relief that they seem real. It may appear strange,
perhaps, to hear this sense of the rule disputed; but it must be
considered, that, if the excellency of a painter consisted only
in this kind of imitation, Painting must lose its rank, and be
no longer considered as a liberal art, and sister to Poetry,
this imitation being nearly mechanical, in which the slowest
intellect is always sure to succeed best; for the painter of
genius cannot stoop to drudgery, in which the understanding has
no part; and what pretence has the art to claim kindred with
poetry but by its power over the imagination? To this power the
painter of genius directs him; in this sense he studies nature,
and often arrives at his end, even by being unnatural in the
confined sense of the word."
"The grand style of painting requires this minute attention to be
carefully avoided, and must be kept as separate from it as the
style of poetry from that of history. (Poetical ornaments destroy
that air of truth and plainness which ought to characterise
history; but the very being of poetry consists in departing from
this plain narrative, and adopting every ornament that will warm
the imagination.[2]) To desire to see the excellencies of each
style united--to mingle the Dutch with the Italian school, is to
join contrarieties, which cannot subsist together, and which
destroy the efficacy of each other."
Sec. 5. We find, first, from this interesting passage, that the writer
considers the Dutch and Italian masters as severally representative
of the low and high schools; next, that he considers the Dutch
painters as excelling in a mechanical imitation, "in which the
slowest intellect is always sure to succeed best;" and, thirdly,
that he considers the Italian painters as excelling in a style which
corresponds to that of imaginative poetry in literature, and which
has an exclusive right to be called the grand style.
I wish that it were in my power entirely to concur with the writer,
and to enforce this opinion thus distinctly stated. I have never
been a zealous partisan of the Dutch School, and should rejoice in
claiming Reynolds's authority for the assertion, that their manner
was one "in which the slowest intellect was always sure to succeed
best." But before his authority can be so claimed, we must observe
exactly the meaning of the assertion itself, and separate it from
the company of some others not perhaps so admissible. First, I say,
we must observe Reynolds's exact meaning, for (though the assertion
may at first appear singular) a man who uses accurate language is
always more liable to misinterpretation than one who is careless in
his expressions. We may assume that the latter means very nearly
what we at first suppose him to mean, for words which have been
uttered without thought may be received without examination. But
when a writer or speaker may be fairly supposed to have considered
his expressions carefully, and, after having revolved a number of
terms in his mind, to have chosen the one which _exactly_ means the
thing he intends to say, we may be assured that what costs him time
to select, will require from us time to understand, and that we
shall do him wrong, unless we pause to reflect how the word which he
has actually employed differs from other words which it seems he
_might_ have employed. It thus constantly happens that persons
themselves unaccustomed to think clearly, or speak correctly,
misunderstand a logical and careful writer, and are actually in more
danger of being misled by language which is measured and precise,
than by that which is loose and inaccurate.
Sec. 6. Now, in the instance before us, a person not accustomed to good
writing might very rashly conclude, that when Reynolds spoke of the
Dutch School as one "in which the slowest intellect was sure to succeed
best," he meant to say that every successful Dutch painter was a fool.
We have no right to take his assertion in that sense. He says, the
_slowest_ intellect. We have no right to assume that he meant the
_weakest_. For it is true, that in order to succeed in the Dutch style,
a man has need of qualities of mind eminently deliberate and sustained.
He must be possessed of patience rather than of power; and must feel no
weariness in contemplating the expression of a single thought for
several months together. As opposed to the changeful energies of the
imagination, these mental characters may be properly spoken of as under
the general term--slowness of intellect. But it by no means follows
that they are necessarily those of weak or foolish men.
We observe however, farther, that the imitation which Reynolds
supposes to be characteristic of the Dutch School is that which
gives to objects such relief that they seem real, and that he then
speaks of this art of realistic imitation as corresponding to
_history_ in literature.
Sec. 7. Reynolds, therefore, seems to class these dull works of the
Dutch School under a general head, to which they are not commonly
referred--that of _Historical_ painting; while he speaks of the
works of the Italian School not as historical, but as _poetical_
painting. His next sentence will farther manifest his meaning.
"The Italian attends only to the invariable, the great and
general ideas which are fixed and inherent in universal
nature; the Dutch, on the contrary, to literal truth and
minute exactness in the detail, as I may say, of nature
modified by accident. The attention to these petty
peculiarities is the very cause of this naturalness so much
admired in the Dutch pictures, which, if we suppose it to be a
beauty, is certainly of a lower order, which ought to give
place to a beauty of a superior kind, since one cannot be
obtained but by departing from the other.
"If my opinion was asked concerning the works of Michael
Angelo, whether they would receive any advantage from
possessing this mechanical merit, I should not scruple to say,
they would not only receive no advantage, but would lose, in a
great measure, the effect which they now have on every mind
susceptible of great and noble ideas. His works may be said to
be all genius and soul; and why should they be loaded with
heavy matter, which can only counteract his purpose by
retarding the progress of the imagination?"
Examining carefully this and the preceding passage, we find the
author's unmistakable meaning to be, that Dutch painting is _history_;
attending to literal truth and "minute exactness in the details of
nature modified by accident." That Italian painting is _poetry_,
attending only to the invariable; and that works which attend only to
the invariable are full of genius and soul; but that literal truth and
exact detail are "heavy matter which retards the progress of the
imagination."
Sec. 8. This being then indisputably what Reynolds means to tell us,
let us think a little whether he is in all respects right. And
first, as he compares his two kinds of painting to history and
poetry, let us see how poetry and history themselves differ, in
their use of _variable_ and _invariable_ details. I am writing at a
window which commands a view of the head of the Lake of Geneva; and
as I look up from my paper, to consider this point, I see, beyond
it, a blue breadth of softly moving water, and the outline of the
mountains above Chillon, bathed in morning mist. The first verses
which naturally come into my mind are--
"A thousand feet in depth below
The massy waters meet and flow;
So far the fathom line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement."
Let us see in what manner this poetical statement is distinguished
from a historical one.
It is distinguished from a truly historical statement, first, in being
simply false. The water under the castle of Chillon is not a thousand
feet deep, nor anything like it.[3] Herein, certainly, these lines
fulfil Reynolds's first requirement in poetry, "that it should be
inattentive to literal truth and minute exactness in detail." In
order, however, to make our comparison more closely in other points,
let us assume that what is stated is indeed a fact, and that it was to
be recorded, first historically, and then poetically.
Historically stating it, then, we should say: "The lake was sounded
from the walls of the castle of Chillon, and found to be a thousand
feet deep."
Now, if Reynolds be right in his idea of the difference between
history and poetry, we shall find that Byron leaves out of this
statement certain _un_necessary details, and retains only the
invariable,--that is to say, the points which the Lake of Geneva and
castle of Chillon have in common with all other lakes and castles.
Let us hear, therefore.
"A thousand feet in depth below."
"Below?" Here is, at all events, a word added (instead of anything
being taken away); invariable, certainly in the case of lakes, but
not absolutely necessary.
"The massy waters meet and flow."
"Massy!" why massy? Because deep water is heavy. The word is a good
word, but it is assuredly an added detail, and expresses a character,
not which the Lake of Geneva has in common with all other lakes, but
which it has in distinction from those which are narrow or shallow.
Sec. 9. "Meet and flow." Why meet and flow? Partly to make up a rhyme;
partly to tell us that the waters are forceful as well as massy, and
changeful as well as deep. Observe, a farther addition of details,
and of details more or less peculiar to the spot, or, according to
Reynolds's definition, of "heavy matter, retarding the progress of
the imagination."
"So far the fathom line was sent."
Why fathom line? All lines for sounding are not fathom lines. If the
lake was ever sounded from Chillon, it was probably sounded in
metres, not fathoms. This is an addition of another particular
detail, in which the only compliance with Reynolds's requirement is,
that there is some chance of its being an inaccurate one.
"From Chillon's snow-white battlement."
Why snow-white? Because castle battlements are not usually
snow-white. This is another added detail, and a detail quite
peculiar to Chillon, and therefore exactly the most striking word in
the whole passage.
"Battlement!" why battlement? Because all walls have not
battlements, and the addition of the term marks the castle to be not
merely a prison, but a fortress.
This is a curious result. Instead of finding, as we expected, the
poetry distinguished from the history by the omission of details, we
find it consist entirely in the _addition_ of details; and instead
of being characterized by regard only of the invariable, we find its
whole power to consist in the clear expression of what is singular
and particular!
Sec. 10. The reader may pursue the investigation for himself in other
instances. He will find in every case that a poetical is distinguished
from a merely historical statement, not by being more vague, but more
specific, and it might, therefore, at first appear that our author's
comparison should be simply reversed, and that the Dutch School should
be called poetical, and the Italian historical. But the term poetical
does not appear very applicable to the generality of Dutch painting;
and a little reflection will show us, that if the Italians represent
only the invariable, they cannot be properly compared even to
historians. For that which is incapable of change has no history, and
records which state only the invariable need not be written, and could
not be read.
Sec. 11. It is evident, therefore, that our author has entangled himself
in some grave fallacy, by introducing this idea of invariableness as
forming a distinction between poetical and historical art. What the
fallacy is, we shall discover as we proceed; but as an invading army
should not leave an untaken fortress in its rear, we must not go on
with our inquiry into the views of Reynolds until we have settled
satisfactorily the question already suggested to us, in what the
essence of poetical treatment really consists. For though, as we have
seen, it certainly involves the addition of specific details, it
cannot be simply that addition which turns the history into poetry.
For it is perfectly possible to add any number of details to a
historical statement, and to make it more prosaic with every added
word. As, for instance, "The lake was sounded out of a flat-bottomed
boat, near the crab tree at the corner of the kitchen-garden, and was
found to be a thousand feet nine inches deep, with a muddy bottom." It
thus appears that it is not the multiplication of details which
constitutes poetry; nor their subtraction which constitutes history;
but that there must be something either in the nature of the details
themselves, or the method of using them, which invests them with
poetical power or historical propriety.
Sec. 12. It seems to me, and may seem to the reader, strange that we
should need to ask the question, "What is poetry?" Here is a word we
have been using all our lives, and, I suppose, with a very distinct
idea attached to it; and when I am now called upon to give a
definition of this idea, I find myself at a pause. What is more
singular, I do not at present recollect hearing the question often
asked, though surely it is a very natural one; and I never recollect
hearing it answered, or even attempted to be answered. In general,
people shelter themselves under metaphors, and while we hear poetry
described as an utterance of the soul, an effusion of Divinity, or
voice of nature, or in other terms equally elevated and obscure, we
never attain anything like a definite explanation of the character
which actually distinguishes it from prose.
Sec. 13. I come, after some embarrassment, to the conclusion, that poetry
is "the suggestion, by the imagination, of noble grounds for the noble
emotions." I mean, by the noble emotions, those four principal sacred
passions--Love, Veneration, Admiration, and Joy (this latter
especially, if unselfish); and their opposites--Hatred, Indignation (or
Scorn), Horror, and Grief,--this last, when unselfish, becoming
Compassion. These passions in their various combinations constitute
what is called "poetical feeling," when they are felt on noble grounds,
that is, on great and true grounds. Indignation, for instance, is a
poetical feeling, if excited by serious injury; but it is not a
poetical feeling if entertained on being cheated out of a small sum of
money. It is very possible the manner of the cheat may have been such
as to justify considerable indignation; but the feeling is nevertheless
not poetical unless the grounds of it be large as well as just. In like
manner, energetic admiration may be excited in certain minds by a
display of fireworks, or a street of handsome shops; but the feeling is
not poetical, because the grounds of it are false, and therefore
ignoble. There is in reality nothing to deserve admiration either in
the firing of packets of gunpowder, or in the display of the stocks of
ware-houses. But admiration excited by the budding of a flower is a
poetical feeling, because it is impossible that this manifestation of
spiritual power and vital beauty can ever be enough admired.
Sec. 14. Farther, it is necessary to the existence of poetry that the
grounds of these feelings should be _furnished by the imagination_.
Poetical feeling, that is to say, mere noble emotion, is not poetry.
It is happily inherent in all human nature deserving the name, and
is found often to be purest in the least sophisticated. But the
power of assembling, by the _help of the imagination_, such images
as will excite these feelings, is the power of the poet or literally
of the "Maker."[4]
Now this power of exciting the emotions depends of course on the
richness of the imagination, and on its choice of those images which,
in combination, will be most effective, or, for the particular work to
be done, most fit. And it is altogether impossible for a writer not
endowed with invention to conceive what tools a true poet will make
use of, or in what way he will apply them, or what unexpected results
he will bring out by them; so that it is vain to say that the details
of poetry ought to possess, or ever do possess, any _definite_
character. Generally speaking, poetry runs into finer and more
delicate details than prose; but the details are not poetical because
they are more delicate, but because they are employed so as to bring
out an affecting result. For instance, no one but a true poet would
have thought of exciting our pity for a bereaved father by describing
his way of locking the door of his house:
"Perhaps to himself, at that moment he said,
The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead;
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek."
In like manner, in painting, it is altogether impossible to say
beforehand what details a great painter may make poetical by his use
of them to excite noble emotions: and we shall, therefore, find
presently that a painting is to be classed in the great or inferior
schools, not according to the kind of details which it represents,
but according to the uses for which it employs them.
Sec. 15. It is only farther to be noticed, that infinite confusion has
been introduced into this subject by the careless and illogical
custom of opposing painting to poetry, instead of regarding poetry
as consisting in a noble use, whether of colors or words. Painting
is properly to be opposed to _speaking_ or _writing_, but not to
_poetry_. Both painting and speaking are methods of expression.
Poetry is the employment of either for the noblest purposes.
Sec. 16. This question being thus far determined, we may proceed with
our paper in the Idler.
"It is very difficult to determine the exact degree of
enthusiasm that the arts of painting and poetry may admit.
There may, perhaps, be too great indulgence as well as too
great a restraint of imagination; if the one produces
incoherent monsters, the other produces what is full as bad,
lifeless insipidity. An intimate knowledge of the passions,
and good sense, but not common sense, must at last determine
its limits. It has been thought, and I believe with reason,
that Michael Angelo sometimes transgressed those limits; and,
I think, I have seen figures of him of which it was very
difficult to determine whether they were in the highest degree
sublime or extremely ridiculous. Such faults may be said to be
the ebullitions of genius; but at least he had this merit,
that he never was insipid, and whatever passion his works may
excite, they will always escape contempt.
"What I have had under consideration is the sublimest style,
particularly that of Michael Angelo, the Homer of painting.
Other kinds may admit of this naturalness, which of the lowest
kind is the chief merit; but in painting, as in poetry, the
highest style has the least of common nature."
From this passage we gather three important indications of the
supposed nature of the Great Style. That it is the work of men in a
state of enthusiasm. That it is like the writing of Homer; and that
it has as little as possible of "common nature" in it.
Sec. 17. First, it is produced by men in a state of enthusiasm. That
is, by men who feel _strongly_ and _nobly_; for we do not call a
strong feeling of envy, jealousy, or ambition, enthusiasm. That is,
therefore, by men who feel poetically. This much we may admit, I
think, with perfect safety. Great art is produced by men who feel
acutely and nobly; and it is in some sort an expression of this
personal feeling. We can easily conceive that there may be a
sufficiently marked distinction between such art, and that which is
produced by men who do not feel at all, but who reproduce, though
ever so accurately, yet coldly, like human mirrors, the scenes which
pass before their eyes.
Sec. 18. Secondly, Great Art is like the writing of Homer, and this
chiefly because it has little of "common nature" in it. We are not
clearly informed what is meant by common nature in this passage. Homer
seems to describe a great deal of what is common;--cookery, for
instance, very carefully in all its processes. I suppose the passage
in the Iliad which, on the whole, has excited most admiration, is that
which describes a wife's sorrow at parting from her husband, and a
child's fright at its father's helmet; and I hope, at least, the
former feeling may be considered "common nature." But the true
greatness of Homer's style is, doubtless, held by our author to
consist in his imaginations of things not only uncommon but impossible
(such as spirits in brazen armor, or monsters with heads of men and
bodies of beasts), and in his occasional delineations of the human
character and form in their utmost, or heroic, strength and beauty. We
gather then on the whole, that a painter in the Great Style must be
enthusiastic, or full of emotion, and must paint the human form in its
utmost strength and beauty, and perhaps certain impossible forms
besides, liable by persons not in an equally enthusiastic state of
mind to be looked upon as in some degree absurd. This I presume to be
Reynolds's meaning, and to be all that he intends us to gather from
his comparison of the Great Style with the writings of Homer. But if
that comparison be a just one in all respects, surely two other
corollaries ought to be drawn from it, namely,--first, that these
Heroic or Impossible images are to be mingled with others very
unheroic and very possible; and, secondly, that in the representation
of the Heroic or Impossible forms, the greatest care must be taken in
_finishing the details_, so that a painter must not be satisfied with
painting well the countenance and the body of his hero, but ought to
spend the greatest part of his time (as Homer the greatest number of
verses) in elaborating the sculptured pattern on his shield.
Sec. 19. Let us, however, proceed with our paper.
"One may very safely recommend a little more enthusiasm to the
modern painters; too much is certainly not the vice of the
present age. The Italians seem to have been continually
declining in this respect, from the time of Michael Angelo to
that of Carlo Maratti, and from thence to the very bathos of
insipidity to which they are now sunk, so that there is no
need of remarking, that where I mentioned the Italian painters
in opposition to the Dutch, I mean not the moderns, but the
heads of the old Roman and Bolognian schools; nor did I mean
to include, in my idea of an Italian painter, the Venetian
school, _which may be said to be the Dutch part of the Italian
genius_. I have only to add a word of advice to the painters,
that, however excellent they may be in painting naturally,
they would not flatter themselves very much upon it; and to
the connoisseurs, that when they see a cat or a fiddle painted
so finely, that, as the phrase is, it looks as if you could
take it up, they would not for that reason immediately compare
the painter to Raffaelle and Michael Angelo."
In this passage there are four points chiefly to be remarked. The
first, that in the year 1759, the Italian painters were, in our
author's opinion, sunk in the very bathos of insipidity. The second,
that the Venetian painters, i.e. Titian, Tintoret, and Veronese,
are, in our author's opinion, to be classed with the Dutch; that is
to say, are painters in a style "in which the slowest intellect is
always sure to succeed best." Thirdly, that painting naturally is
not a difficult thing, nor one on which a painter should pride
himself. And, finally, that connoisseurs, seeing a cat or a fiddle
successfully painted, ought not therefore immediately to compare the
painter to Raphael or Michael Angelo.
Yet Raphael painted fiddles very carefully in the foreground of his
St. Cecilia,--so carefully, that they quite look as if they might be
taken up. So carefully, that I never yet looked at the picture
without wishing that somebody _would_ take them up, and out of the
way. And I am under a very strong persuasion that Raphael did not
think painting "naturally" an easy thing. It will be well to examine
into this point a little; and for the present, with the reader's
permission, we will pass over the first two statements in this
passage (touching the character of Italian art in 1759, and of
Venetian art in general), and immediately examine some of the
evidence existing as to the real dignity of "natural" painting--that
is to say, of painting carried to the point at which it reaches a
deceptive appearance of reality.
[2] I have put this sentence in a parenthesis, because it is
inconsistent with the rest of the statement, and with the
general teaching of the paper; since that which "attends only
to the invariable" cannot certainly adopt "every ornament that
will warm the imagination."
[3] "MM. Mallet et Pictet, se trouvant sur le lac aupres du
chateau de Chillon, le 6 Aout, 1774, plongerent a la
profondeur de 312 pieds de un thermometre," &c.--SAUSSURE,
_Voyages dans les Alpes_, chap. ii. Sec. 33. It appears from the
next paragraph, that the thermometer was "au fond du lac."
[4] Take, for instance, the beautiful stanza in the "Affliction of
Margaret:"
"I look for ghosts, but none will force
Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said
That ever there was intercourse
Between the living and the dead;
For, surely then, I should have sight
Of him I wait for, day and night,
With love and longing infinite."
This we call Poetry, because it is invented _or made_ by the
writer, entering into the mind of a supposed person. Next,
take an instance of the actual feeling truly experienced and
simply expressed by a real person.
"Nothing surprised me more than a woman of Argentiere, whose
cottage I went into to ask for milk, as I came down from the
glacier of Argentiere, in the month of March, 1764. An epidemic
dysentery had prevailed in the village, and, a few months
before, had taken away from her, her father, her husband, and
her brothers, so that she was left alone, with three children in
the cradle. Her face had something noble in it, and its
expression bore the seal of a calm and profound sorrow. After
having given me milk, she asked me whence I came, and what I
came there to do, so early in the year. When she knew that I was
of Geneva, she said to me, 'she could not believe that all
Protestants were lost souls; that there were many honest people
among us, and that God was too good and too great to condemn all
without distinction.' Then, after a moment of reflection, she
added, in shaking her head, 'But, that which is very strange, is
that of so many who have gone away, none have ever returned. I,'
she added, with an expression of grief, 'who have so mourned my
husband and my brothers, who have never ceased to think of them,
who every night conjure them with beseechings to tell me where
they are, and in what state they are! Ah, surely, if they lived
anywhere, they would not leave me thus! But, perhaps,' she
added, 'I am not worthy of this kindness, perhaps the pure and
innocent spirits of these children,' and she looked at the
cradle, 'may have their presence, and the joy which is denied to
_me_.'"--SAUSSURE, _Voyages dans les Alpes_, chap. xxiv.
This we do not call Poetry, merely because it is not invented,
but the true utterance of a real person.